


Alone

by CocoBadShip



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: CACW Fix-it, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, kind of, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-03-09 23:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CocoBadShip/pseuds/CocoBadShip
Summary: "I don't understand why you helped him." Bucky looks at Sam with pain and regret in his eyes. "I . . . I don't understand why you came."Sam scoffs, and stares at the cracked, uneven pavement beneath his feet."Because I'm stupid, Buck," he answers. "That's the only reason I can think of."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime around CA:CW, but honestly I don't even know if that matters. I just wanted to write a sad roadtrip with three pining losers.

Sam didn’t think this all the way through.

That’s always been a problem Sam’s had: he doesn’t think shit all the way through.

You’d think that he would have a stronger sense of foresight, what with him being in service for all that time. You see, Sam’s managed to trick people into thinking that he is a logic-driven tactatian.

But he’s not. The few people left on this Earth that really know him could tell you that in a second.

Sometimes, Sam just jumps head first into the bullshit because his emotions told him to. And it’s some time later that he realizes how much trouble he’s gotten himself into.

You’d think he stop that bullshit one day. It’s nearly gotten him killed more times than Sam can count. But he keeps bulldozing.

Maybe it’s just how he’s programmed.

**

“ _Bucky . . .”_

The name falls off of Steve’s lip like a desperate prayer.

They’ve found him this time. Dirty, shivering, hunched beside rickety pipes while he hides from God knows who. Bucky looks up at Steve through his hair, mumbles some odd fact about Steve’s mother that only James Buchanan could’ve possibly known.

Sam watches Steve’s back the whole time; he watches how it tenses and shakes, how unsteadily Steve breathes when he realizes _Oh my God. It’s him. It’s actually him._

Only once does Sam look directly at this man they’ve chased down for nearly two whole years. It’s a quick glimpse--he barely takes stock of Bucky’s torn red shirt and bright blue eyes--but it’s enough.

Sam glances between Bucky and Steve, and he feels his own breath getting shallow. His own stomach is starting to twist, and his own heart just skipped a beat. Far behind them, but getting much, much closer, Sam can hear voices and footsteps.

Sam didn’t think this all the way through. Because, if he had, he would have never left the cemetery with Steve Rogers that day. Hell, he would have never opened the door for him to begin with.

**

_“Sammy. Wake up, man. Come on, now, get up!”_

_Riley’s voice is rough with sleep, a course alarm clock for Sam. Sam’s eyes barely open; Riley’s face floats above Sam’s, and Sam can’t tell if he’s startled or thrilled by the sight._

_“You wake me up earlier and earlier every day, country boy,” Sam grumbles, too sleepy to worry about how affectionate he sounds. “Take yo ass to sleep.”_

_Riley grins, and his damn smile takes up his whole face._

_“We gotta go running before the sun gets too high!” Good Lord. Riley sounds like a kid on Christmas morning._

_The bed moves underneath Sam’s’ body; Riley’s straddling him now. And how the hell is that supposed to help?_

_“You getting lazy on me, Sammy,” Riley’s voice is soft and teasing._

_Sam smirks. He reaches up just enough to spread both hands on his boyfriend’s stomach._

_“You the one that’s getting soft.”_

_Riley takes Sam’s hands, and grins like the devil. Riley’s body is so warm that it’s bordering on hot, and Sam could live and die in the heat._

_“And you love it, too. Don’t you?”_

_Sam bites his lip, pretending to be shy all of a sudden. Riley won’t make him say it. Nope. Not this early in the morning. Maybe later._

_Sam’s eyes travel up from Riley’s stomach back to his face. Big, bright, mischievous green eyes stare back at him._

_Riley leans down on top of Sam. Kisses Sam on the spot on his neck that makes Sam’s breath hitch. Sam runs his hands up Riley’s hot back._

_“Thought you wanted to go running?” Sam’s breathless and hard and today’s little mission is the last thing on his mind._

_Riley lifts himself up so that he can peer down into Sam’s face. Then he kisses Sam softly on the lips._

_“Changed my mind.”_

_**_

Steve drives. There’s no telling for how long or how far, but they’re driving. For hours and hours and hours and hours. Bucky’s nerves are _shot,_ but that doesn’t make him special because Steve looks nauseated, and Sam is two gunshot sounds away from a fucking heart attack.

And they’re doing this _for_ Bucky Barnes.

So as far as Sam is concerned, Bucky can sit there looking as baffled and anxious as he wants. Just as long as they keep driving.

They have to get somewhere safe. Sam doesn’t know if that’s even possible. But they have to try.

**

A motel. None of them even know where the fuck they are, but they’ve found a motel. An old extended stay in the middle of got damn nowhere. It’s a little rundown, but it’s not nearly as bad as some of the spots Sam and Steve have found themselves in. The rooms are clean and decent-sized. There’s even a pool with blue, chlorine-filled water.

They have a room on the ground floor. They throw what little belongings they have in it (Sam can’t help but notice that they’re mostly carrying concealed weapons.) and they try not to look suspicious as the three of them crowd inside.

When everything’s put away and they’re safely locked inside, Sam lets himself collapse onto one of the beds. He faintly hears his mother’s words in the back of his mind--something about hotels and motels being nasty and checking for bed bugs. But his exhaustion overtakes any desire for conscientious cleanliness. Sam takes a deep breath, and every muscle in his body deflates in response. Steve’s slipped into the bathroom, and the sound of running water is lulling Sam to sleep.

Just as Sam’s started to slip away, a nearby presence causes him to jolt away. Bucky Barnes, sitting in a chair that’s too close to the bed Sam’s spread out on.

“Shit,” Sam murmurs, like he has any reason to be surprised.

Sam props himself up on his elbows to look Bucky in his face. Bucky’s eyes widen, and he stares at Sam the exact same way a child does when he’s been caught red-handed.

“Can I help you?” Sam asks, his tone flat. And yeah, it’s a rude question, but this situation isn’t actually fostering warm feelings.

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind the rudeness. He doesn’t even seem to notice it, really. Bucky just . . . blinks at Sam, watching him as if he’s never seen anyone like him before.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles. His voice sounds rough. Like it would hurt to talk.

Sam’s heart skips a beat at the sound.  

The sound of running water stops, and Steve reemerges from the bathroom. He leans against the wall and looks at them both. Steve looks _tired._

“We need to get some rest,” Steve says softly.

Sam nods, and the movement takes the last of his energy.

“Damn, right, we do,” he grumbles. Then he lets himself fall backwards onto the bed again, not even bothering with taking his jacket off.

As Sam drifts into sleep, he feels the bed dip underneath him once. A warm, heavy body gently pressed against his.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of a car alarm rips through the still air.

Sam jolts awake. It’s pitch black dark, and the air feels thick, and there’s a loud noise. Sam looks around wildly, but he sees _nothing_ , and then he feels something next to him, and something grabs his _arm--_

“Sam! _Sam!_ It’s okay! It’s me.”

Steve’s urgent whispers bring Sam back to reality. He’s in a motel. With Steve. And Bucky.

Steve’s hand finds Sam’s, and Steve squeezes it.

“You okay?”

It’s dark as fuck in this room, but Sam doesn’t even need to see Steve’s face to know Steve’s giving him a worried look.

“Yeah . . . I’m good.”

“Nightmare?”

“Nah. No nightmare. Just good ole fashion disorientation.”

Steve laughs softly. “I feel you on that.”

It’s silent; the car alarm has stopped. Sam turns his head away from here Steve’s voice was, and towards the other bed in the room. He faintly makes out the shape of Bucky laying in bed, his body curled up into a ball. This big, hulking, brainwashed assassin is a small bundle on a strange bed.

While Sam watches Bucky’s form, he suddenly feels Steve’s hand on his back.

“You still have your jacket on,” Steve murmurs. “And--” the tips of Steve’s fingers find Sam’s knee “--and your jeans? How are you sleeping like this?”

Sam snorts. Steve’s right; Sam’s not comfortable at all. He starts to shrug out of his jacket, but he stops when he feels Steve pulling on it.

“You trying to get me naked, Cap?” Sam asks cheekily.

Steve makes a small coughing noise, and Sam struggles not to laugh aloud. He likes to imagine that Steve is blushing.

“Oh, hush,” Steve says. “I just think you should be comfortable.”

Sam bites back another laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

But Sam lets Steve take his jacket off, and tries not to think too hard about the feeling of Steve’s hands on his arms and shoulders. Then Sam reaches down and shucks off his jeans before that annoying little voice in his mind can remind him that maybe this should be more awkward than it is.

Steve moves over a little as Sam sinks back into the bed.  It could be because he wants to give Sam space or it could because he doesn’t want to be _so close_ to a half-naked Sam. They’ve seen each other in almost every state of dressed/undressed, but they’ve never shared a bed before. They never had to share one before.

But they have an extra passenger now. So adjustments must be made.

**

_Riley eats like a damn garbage disposal._

_Sam’s never gotten used to it. It’s fascinating; Sam can just sit here and watch Riley shovel his breakfast his down for hours. Riley eats like he’ll never be full, like there’s a hole somewhere in him. If you ask him, Riley will blame it on his size, or his metabolism, or the fact that Southern boys like to eat._

_Riley peeks up at Sam and catches him staring. He swallows the pancake he was absorbing, then grins._

_“Why do you_ make _breakfast and then not_ eat _it?” Riley asks, and the faintest hint of his Jackson, Mississippi accent slips through._

_“Because watching you eat turns my stomach,” Sam says affectionately._

_Riley laughs boisterously._

_“You been watching me eat for how long? Your stomach can’t be that bad.”_

_“I think I’m just getting used to your grossness.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, my_ grossness _,” Riley slings a big arm over the back of Sam’s chair. “You do need to eat something, Sam,” Riley adds in a serious tone. “I don’t like it when you just go hungry all day.”_

_Sam shrugs. “You know I don’t like to eat a lot before we fly. Nerves are bad enough as it is.”_

_Riley nods. “Yeah, I know. But relax, okay? It’ll go smooth as always. I got ya back. You know that, right?” Riley looks solemn, and for some reason, the look on his face makes Sam even more anxious._

_But Sam smiles and nods._

_“I know. And I got yours.”_

**

Whispers in the dead of night.

Voices so soft that they are barely distinguishable from the random noises of the outside. A conversation so quiet that Sam shouldn’t have even stirred at the sound, let alone be woken up by it.

It’s Steve. And Bucky. Sitting on the edge of Bucky’s bed.

Sam doesn’t move; he doesn’t make a sound. He keeps breathing as even as possible. Sam’s eavesdropping, or trying to, anyway. Sam tells himself that it’s necessary to eavesdrop on these two, given the circumstances they’re facing. They both need to be aware of Bucky’s mindset at all times.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Sam can’t _hear_ them. He can strain all he wants to, but he’s not picking up any words. He just hears the sound of them speaking.

Steve and Bucky have huddled close, like they need one and other’s words to survive. They’re only a feet away from Sam, but they might as well be hundreds of miles away.

Sam’s stomach drops, and his chest begins to tighten. Out of nowhere, anxiety rises in him. It rushes through his body, and he’s antsy and paralyzed, and he wants to crawl out of his own skin. But just as suddenly as it comes, it stops; the anxiety dissipates, and his stomach drops.

And Sam’s left with . . . nothing. An empty feeling. And then, a heavy sadness.

Sam shuts his eyes. He lets out a shaky breath, and instantly regrets doing so. He can feel them looking at him now.

“ . . . Is he okay?” Bucky’s voice is small, nervous. “Should you wake him?”

 _Please, no. Leave me alone._ Sam grits his teeth, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

“No,” Steve finally whispers. “We should let him sleep. He’s . . . had a rough time.”

Steve sounds sad. It hurts. But more than that, it pisses Sam off.

He wants to turn roughly, or sigh, or cough. Sam wants to make some noise to let them know that he’s _awake,_ and he can _hear you_ , Steve. Sam can hear the weird sympathy and the guilt in your voice. He can hear Bucky’s confusion and worry. Sam can hear how much easier it would’ve been for all three of them if haven’t invited himself to this manhunt.

Sam wants to be petty right now. He wants to pick a fight.

But he can’t; Steve sounds too damn sad, and Sam is too damn tired. So, Sam settles back into the motel bed, forcing himself to tune them out.

As Sam starts to drift off to sleep again, he wonders when he’ll have full control of his emotions again.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Riley is nervous.  _

_ Sam can tell by how still he’s sitting during the briefing.  _

_ The briefing doesn’t last very long at all; the details are scarce. Intelligence found a not-so secret compound outside of Jersey. Sam and Riley just have to fly over a few security walls, grab four cases--two with weapons, two with some declassified, stolen documents--and fly back without getting shot. Even the sergeant thinks this will be easy for them.  _

_ Usually, Riley hates briefing and debriefing; he says they’re “buzzkills.” He usually fidgets and gets distracted while Sam secretly nudges him and redirects his attention. Sam always has to be the responsible one, despite the fact that he also doesn’t have much practice at being responsible.  _

_ Today is different, though. Riley is statue-still, his full attention on their sergeant. But Riley is watching and listening like this is the most important mission of his life. Sam can’t help but distracted by the fact that Riley  _ isn’t  _ distracted.  _

_ As soon as the briefing ends, Sam and Riley suit up. Riley usually cracks a pheasant or pigeon joke at this point. But today he keeps his eyes downcast and his jaw set.  _

_ Okay. Sam can’t take this. He tilts his head down so that he can catch Riley’s eye. Riley blinks as he looks up at Sam.  _

_ Riley looks . . . scared. _

_ “What’s wrong, Riles?” _

_ “Nothing.” _

_ “You’re lying to me.” And Riley never lies to Sam.  _

_ “ . . . I’m just . . . I don’t know. I feel weird today, Sam. My nerves are bad for some reason.” _

_ “ _ I’m  _ the one with the bad nerves, remember?”  _

_ Riley snorts, but he still looks miserable. Sam glances around the room, checking to see if the coast is clear. When he’s sure they’re alone, he puts both hands on Riley’s quivering shoulders.  _

_ “We need to put in for some time off after this,” Sam says softly. “We’ve been working too hard if  _ you  _ are starting to get worked up.”  _

_ Riley laughs. It’s shaky, but it’s genuine. _

_ “Yeah, you right. We need a vacation real bad.”  _

_ “Yeah, we do. We’ll take a nice trip. You and me.” _

_ Riley nods slowly. _

_ “Alright, yeah. You and me.”  _

**

The sun is barely in the sky when Sam wakes up.

Sam doesn’t need to see a clock to know it’s barely past 5am. That stupid internal clock of his never lets him sleep for too long. 

Sam sits up in the bed. His body feels stiff and heavy. Like a corpse entering rigor mortis. He stretches, and his shoulders and back pop in a way that sounds terrifying. But the popping sound is what reminds him that he actually had room to stretch. 

Sam looks over to the bed next to him. Bucky’s curled up, still out. Sam sees something shift out of the corner of his eye. It’s Steve, lying on the damn floor with a pillow and the jacket he was wearing. 

_ Of course _ Steve ended up sleeping on the floor. He looks strangely peaceful, like this sleep is the best sleep he’s gotten in a long time. It probably is, considering their line of work. Sam looks at Steve’s soft face, and he realizes something. 

Got damn. Sam managed to wake up before Captain fucking America. There’s gotta be an award for that. 

Sam climbs off the bed, and digs in one of his bags for his bath stuff and something to wear. He clutches the stuff to his chest and starts for the bathroom, but nearly steps on Steve’s big self in the process. 

Sam snorts and crouches down next to Steve. He gently puts his hand on Steve’s arm.

“Hey! Hey, Cap! Wake up!” Sam calls, as quietly and urgently as he can.

Sam has to shake Steve a couple of times before Steve blinks awake. His eyes look tired, and his hair looks even more rumbled than usual. Steve smiles at Sam, the word  _ cute  _ briefly flashes across Sam’s mind. 

Oh, God, no. No. Sam had said he was going to stop associating Steve’s face with words like “cute.” 

“Hey, Sam,” Steve’s voice is scratchy. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be in your way.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You  _ would  _ apologize for sleeping on the floor,” he says sarcastically. “I just don’t wanna step on you while trying to get into the bathroom.” 

Steve smirks, and scoots over so that Sam can walk by.

“Don’t use all the hot water,” Steve warns teasingly. 

“Hope you like cold showers!” Sam calls back, and he locks himself in the bathroom and pretends that he can’t hear Steve chuckling. 

He takes a quick warm shower, no more than five minutes. Dries off, puts on lotion, throws on his clothes. Sam brushes his teeth slowly, for some reason. He’s not sure why he chooses this moment to stall, but he does. Suddenly, leaving this bathroom seems like a monumental task that Sam cannot complete. 

Sam’s teeth are sore; he was gritting them in his sleep. He’s gonna end up needing a mouth guard thanks to these two idiots. 

Sam’s steps out of the bathroom, feeling no cleaner than he has in the less few months. 

“I’m done,” he says, and he nods his head towards the bathroom.

Bucky shoots Steve a look, and Steve kind of jerks his head in Sam’s direction. Then Bucky starts to dug through a bag for clothes, keeping his head down as he looks. 

It’s only when Steve hands Bucky a shirt from Steve’s bag that Sam realizes that Bucky had been silently asking for Steve’s permission to use the bathroom. 

Bucky slips into the bathroom, giving Sam as wide a berth as he can manage as he goes. Sam hates that his eyes linger on Bucky’s back as Bucky closes the door. 

Bucky turns the shower on; the muted noise of the running water makes Sam feel a little claustrophobic. Sam looks at Steve, and the look of uncertainty and sadness on Steve’s face makes Sam’s stomach twist. 

“Steve,” Sam says quietly, a hard edge to his voice. “Steve, he’s not . . .” Sam’s voice trails off. He suddenly doesn’t know how to say this.  _ Not who you thought he was. Not what you thought we’d find. Not ever going to be the same as you remember.  _

Steve hangs his head; Sam doesn’t need to choose a response.

“I know, Sam,” Steve says. The weight of the words make Steve’s shoulders sag. “I know.” 

**

They destroy their phones later that morning. It’s Sam’s idea. 

“You never know who’s watching us or trying to track us,” he says when Bucky and Steve look at him in alarm. “Especially since we’re dealing with HYDRA. And S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

Which are, as far as Sam’s concerned, the same thing. 

Steve’s jaw twitches, but he nods in agreement. He breaks his flip phone in half and lets the pieces fall to the motel room floor. 

Bucky flinches, and looks at Steve anxiously. 

“Sam is right,” Steve says carefully, looking Bucky directly in the face. “They could be trying to track us somehow.” 

“ . . . Trying to track  _ me _ ?” Bucky’s voice is tight, and he looks at the ground, then the old t.v., then out of the window. Everywhere but Sam or Steve.

“Trying to track  _ us,”  _ Sam corrects firmly. “All three of us.” 

Because that’s Sam’s life now; “Steve” means “Sam, too”, and “Sam” means “Steve, too.” And “Bucky” means them both. 

Bucky’s eye twitches; he looks up at Sam like he’s never seen anyone like him before. But then Bucky’s shoulders slump and he casts his eyes back downward. That’s probably as close to “relaxed” as Sam will ever see him.

Sam hands his smartphone to Steve. Steve starts smashing it against the bedside table. Bucky jumps, and he blinks rapidly. But he doesn’t look up. 


	4. Chapter 4

There’s only a few other people in the motel. 

A couple of families on some cheap vacation. Three guys who look like douchey frat bros who want to spend their summer getting wasted. The housekeepers who come in and out of the rooms; older women in pale blue uniforms, hair pulled back in buns, a couple of them occasionally speaking in Spanish. 

And then there’s the three of them. A veteran, a brainwashed super soldier, and the man who was once the symbol of American exceptionalism. Two international fugitives and their foolish companion. The oddest of groups, if you were just looking at them on paper. 

The housekeepers don’t seem to notice them all that much, though. They knock on the door, give them clean towels and sometimes cups, and keep it moving. 

Well, most of the housekeepers don’t notice them. 

There is one who does, a young woman who reminds Sam too much of his niece. Petite, slender, with dark-brown skin and long black, coily hair that she keeps pulled back at the nape of her neck. 

She looks absolutely petrified when Bucky opens the door one day, her eyes going wide and her whole body going rigid. She grips the white towels in her hands as if they’ll protect her. Bucky blinks at her, clearly unsure of whether or not her fear is a threat to them. 

The housekeeper doesn’t relax at all until Sam comes to the door, gently nudging Bucky in his side. Bucky stares at Sam, then nods stiffly and slinks back into the room. Sam takes the towels out of her hands and watches she lets out a shaky breath.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sam says warmly.

The housekeeper gives him a small smile and nods. 

“My pleasure,” she answers, and her voice is soft and youthful and it makes Sam’s heart sink. 

The housekeeper scurries away, her head down. Sam watches her and thinks of his niece again. He thinks of his niece, and then he thinks of his sister, and then he thinks of his mother. 

It’s an eerie feeling, thinking of family that he’s not seen in years, or will never see again. He might as well be thinking of apparitions or of the brief mirages he’s seen in the desert. Ghostly figures that pass by his eyes. 

**

No one uses the pool at night. 

Sam’s noticed that in the few days they’ve been here. 

(He doesn’t know  _ how many  _ days they’ve been here. Just that it’s been a few. That’s a bad sign, he thinks.)

This place is generally very quiet at night. Even the frat boys who are crashing here don’t keep up any noise. It’s like all life ceases to exist once midnight hits. 

Tonight, Sam uses that quiet to his advantage: he creeps out of the room, carrying himself over to the pool. The gate creaks when he opens it, and the sound makes him jump. Sam’s too fucking paranoid if this is all it takes to rattle his nerves. 

Sam (shakily) sits down on the ground next to the pool, letting his feet and ankle sink into the 5-feet-deep section. The water is colder than Sam expected, and he shivers as the water grips his skin. His skin acclimates, quickly, though. Sam always acclimates pretty quickly, even when he doesn’t want to

Sam’s eyes fall shut, and he takes a deep breath. He can’t relax, not really; all the muscles in his back and arms are still tense. It’s like someone’s gripping the back of Sam’s neck, and the grip tightens with every breath he takes.

He’s stressed. Yes. Of course he’s stressed. 

Sam’s eyes flutter open, and he stares at the blue of the pool. He remembers being a teenager, sneaking into the city pools after they’d closed with his friends, always having to run from the cops whenever some mosy neighborhood or passerby snitched on them. 

One time, Sam almost drowned in one of those pools. His foot got caught on some type of tubing, and the next thing he knew, he was underwater. It felt like an eternity before one of his friends realized and pulled him up. Sam remembers the blurry street lights above his head, the feeling of water rushing up his nose and into ears. He remembers feeling like his chest was going to explode. Most of all, Sam remembers thinking that he would just sink to the bottom. He would sink to the bottom, and stay there forever.

Sam stares down at the water in front of him. His eyes slide over to the 11-feet-deep section. Sam wonders if he could slip in the water and sink to the bottom, let all 11 feet pour into his mouth and nose and ears, let it all fill his chest until his lungs explode. Sam wonders how long it would take before Steve noticed. 

“Sam . . .”

Steve’s voice, soft and hesitant, startles Sam. Sam turns his head sharply to see Steve standing there, his hands up in a small sign of surrender. 

“It’s just me,” Steve says reassuringly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sam snorts. He turns his gaze back to the water. He guesses this is his answer. 

“Barnes asleep?” Sam asks, staring at the obnoxiously bright pools lights. 

“Yep.”

“Why aren’t you? Insomnia got you?” 

Steve walks over to Sam, and slowly sits beside him. Steve sits close, and it takes everything in Sam to not look directly into Steve’s face. 

“I saw you leave the room. And then you took too long to come back.” Steve’s voice has a stern edge to it. It’s worry, Sam realizes.

Sam shrugs. “I ain’t been out here that long.”

“Yeah, but it’s late. And dark out.”

Sam snorts. He  _ should  _ know better than this. Steve can’t afford anything to happen to Sam because Sam decided to wander off into the night. 

“My bad, old man,” Sam says softly. “I didn’t know I had a curfew.” 

“No curfew,” Steve says with a brief laugh. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

Steve is staring at Sam now: Sam can feel it. Sure enough, when Sam finally pulls his eyes away from the water and looks at Steve, Steve’s blue eyes are staring directly into Sam’s. 

“I need to know if you’re okay, Sam,” Steve says, his voice entirely too gentle. 

Sam wills himself to breathe evenly. Sam’s chest jumps, and Steve frowns deeply.

“I’m here,” Sam says through gritted teeth. “Right? I’m alive.” 

“Sam, come on. You know that’s not what I mean.” Steve’s voice takes on an urgency that makes Sam’s heart sink. Sam wonders if Steve is guilt-tripping him on purpose. 

Sam sighs and faces away from Steve again. Sam’s found that it’s easier to lie when he’s not looking at Steve’s face.

“I’m as good as I’m going to get. I think that’s all I can ask for at this point,” Sam answers, staring out at the empty desert surrounding them. 

Steve wants to argue with Sam; Sam can tell by the way Steve shifts next to them, the way his body seems to stiffen. But, out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see Steve nod instead. 

“You’re probably right about that,” Steve concedes. He sounds stressed. Yes, of course he sounds stressed. 

They fall silent. Sam can hear crickets in the distance, and that’s the only sound he hears. Everything else is completely still. It’s eerie. 

Eventually, Steve sighs, and Sam’s grateful for the disruption. 

“I can’t ever repay you for this,” Steve says quietly. 

Sam looks at face, making sure he turns fully around to see his face. Steve looks sorrowful and absolutely pathetic.

“I didn’t ask you to,” Sam retorts. 

“But I  _ want  _ to, Sam.” 

_ Can’t always get what you want, Cap.  _ Sam stops the words before they slip out of his mouth. Sam pulls his feet out of the pool and stands up, looking down at Steve’s face. Steve looks up at him at him with a frown. Sam’s feet are freezing.

“No use in worrying about it,” Sam says. “Besides, we still got other shit to worry about.” 

Steve’s jaw twitches, but he nods. 

“That’s true,” Steve concedes. “We still have to find a safe place  to land. Tony is never going to speak to me again, so the compound is out of the question.” 

Sam can’t even imagine himself living in the Avengers compound, with Tony fucking Stark, of all people. So much of Sam’s new life is mind-boggling to him.

“Well, we got figure it out soon. I’m getting tired of sharing motel rooms with you, Cap,” Sam says with mock seriousness. 

But Steve actually looks wounded, as if he’s forgotten what Sam’s sarcasm sounds like. He watches Sam’s face steadily. 

Sam takes mercy on Steve: he smiles at him, and reaches his hand down. Steve blinks for a moment, but then he smiles and takes Sam’s hand. Sam pulls Steve to his feet, although they both know that Steve really doesn’t need the help. 

Suddenly, Steve is standing  _ close _ , so close that Sam is distracted by how long his blond eyelashes are. Steve’s bright blue eyes are disorienting, and the way Steve grips Sam’s hand makes Sam’s skin feel hot. Sam’s head is spinning. 

“Thank you,” Steve says earnestly, much, much too earnestly. 

“No problem,” Sam mutters, praying that this feeling-- _ whatever _ it is--isn’t showing on his face. 

**

_ Sam’s fallen. _

_ It’s his own fault.  _

_ He got spotted, and had to fly out of the way of a fucking rocket. Sam turned too hard--was in too much of  panic. And the wind worked against his wings.  _

_He’s not fallen far; he’ll live. But he’s fallen_ hard. _His wings make a terrifying sound as his body connects with the ground._

_ “Wilson! Wilson, do you read?” _

_ Sergeant Jones’s voice crackles over Sam’s device, but the sound barely registers. _

_ Sam unlatches the wings and crawls out of his gear. He tries to stand, but ends up on all fours, coughing as he struggles to regain the breath that was knocked out of him.  _

_ Shit, his back hurts. His back, his shoulders, his knees. They’re all screaming in pain as Sam tries to compose himself. He has one more case he needs to retrieve, and he can’t leave here until his mission is done.  _

_ “Wilson!!” Sergeant Jones sounds agitated, bordering on frantic now. “Are you conscious? Can you hear me?”  _

_ Sam lifts a shaky hand to his earpiece.  _

_ “Yeah . . . I can hear you. I’m okay.” _

_ “Like hell you are.”  _

_ Sam’s about to argue--about to  _ lie _ \--when he sees Riley flying towards him.  _

_ Riley’s own landing is hard as hell; he trips over his own feet, and Sam flinches at the way Riley just drops his wings to the ground.  _

_ Riley rushes over to Sam and drops to his knees in front of him.  _

_ “Sammy!  _ Sammy!  _ Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Riley’s voice trembles, and his eyes are wide with terror.  _

_ “I’m fine, Riley. I’m good.” Sam keeps his tone as curt and neutral as possible. Now is not a good time for Riley to forget that they can’t talk to each other in a certain way when they’re around certain people.  _

_ But Riley doesn’t seem to catch Sam’s drift; he puts his hands on either side of Sam’s face.  _

_ “We’re done here,” Riley announces.  _

_ “No!  _ NO!  _ We’re not! _ ”  _ Sam picks himself off of the ground.  _

_ Riley looks at Sam incredulously. Sam tries to ignore the look his boyfriend’s giving him and turns his attention back to Sergeant Jones.  _

_ “I’m okay. I have one more case to grab,” Sam says into his earpiece.  _

_ “Well, grab it then! And you and Parks get your asses to the spot before you get killed!” The concern in Sergeant Jones’s voice makes Sam anxious.  _

_ But Sam takes a deep breath and tugs his wings back on. _

_ “Riley, you get out of here,” Sam says. “I won’t take long.” _

_ Riley stares at Sam as if Sam’s lost his mind. _

_ “What the fuck are you talking about?” Riley demands.  “You aren’t going alone.” _

_ Sam rolls his eyes. “I got this, Riley.” The pain in Sam’s back says otherwise. But Sam just grits his teeth against it. “It’ll be faster if I go by myself.”  _

_ Riley scoffs. And he pulls his wings back on. _

_ “We’re flying together, jackass,” he says with finality. “I’ll watch your back.”  _

_ Riley’s off of the ground before Sam can argue with him any more. Sam watches Riley hoover in the air. One day, Sam thinks, he’ll have to tell Riley just how thankful he is for his stubbornness.  _

_ Sam sighs heavily, and then takes off in flight.  _


	5. Chapter 5

Sam’s head hurts.

He wakes up feeling like he’s got a massive hangover. Which is both impossible and unfair. 

Even from behind his eyelids, the lights of the motel room look horribly bright. Sam slowly opens his eyes and instantly regrets it. He sits up; pushing himself off of the bed feels like the most massive of undertakings. He can feel this morning in his bones. 

“Fuck,” Sam croaks out. 

“. . . You good?”

Sam groans and looks over to his right. Of course, Bucky is sitting there on the other bed, watching Sam.

Bucky nods his head towards the bathroom. “Steve just went in.” 

As if on cue, Sam hears the loud sounds of a forceful shower spray. The sound makes Sam’s body ache with envy.

“I’m just peachy,” Sam finally says. “You know it’s not polite to stare, right?” 

Bucky nods. Sam expects Bucky to give him one of those awkward, uncomfortable looks. Instead, Bucky actually smiles, a mischievous look in his eye.

“Yeah, but it’s also not polite to throw your pillows on the floor at night, but you did that, anyway,” Bucky retorts. 

Sam squints at Bucky. Everything about this interaction is confusing. Sam’s not entirely sure that his half-asleep brain isn’t causing him to hallucinate. 

Bucky’s eyes dart to the floor. Sam follows his gaze. Sure enough, there are three pillows stacked up on the floor next to Sam’s side of the bed. They’re stacked neatly, which immediately lets Sam know that this was Steve’s doing. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky continues, shifting his gaze back to Sam’s befuddled face. “I do that, too, sometimes. I think . . . I think it’s an army thing. Or something.” 

Sam drags a hand down his face. 

“Yeah, probably,” he says tiredly. 

For a second, they both just sit there, Bucky watching Sam, and Sam with his eyes shut, listening to the shower spray. But then Sam realizes something. 

“Steve told you that I was in the army?” 

Bucky’s smile fades. He looks down at the ground again. The version of Bucky Sam has been seeing for the past few days starts to re-emerge. 

“Um, no, not really,” Bucky says. “He just said you were an Avenger. And his friend.”

Sam’s chest feels tight. He doesn’t know why the word “friend” sucks the air out of him the way it does. Sam doesn’t know how or why he could expect any other word. 

“Oh.”

“But, I, um--” Bucky looks up at Sam shyly. “I could kind of  _ tell  _ you were in the army. By some of your habits.” 

“My habits?” Sam’s habits. Bucky’s been watching Sam a lot more closely than Sam had assumed if Bucky’s keeping track of Sam’s “habits.” 

Bucky nods. “The way you sleep, the way you dress, the way you talk or stand sometimes. I think everyone has tells, you know?” Bucky speaks casually, like this is a conversation they’ve had--or should’ve had--before. 

Sam stares at Bucky. Suspicion, irritation, alarm and a strange sense of appreciation are all competing to be the dominant emotion Sam feels. He ends up settling with a feeling that’s akin to flattery. It’s a weird feeling that Sam can’t let Bucky see. 

“Well, it’s nice to know that I’m an open book,” Sam says sarcastically. 

Bucky smiles again, glancing up at sam quickly before ducking his head back down. 

“Most people are,” Bucky mutters. “You just gotta know how to read them.” 

“And you’ve decided to read me?”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I have.” 

Sam  _ should  _ feel threatened, hearing that from someone like him. But he doesn’t. It’s just that strange, soft, fluttering in his stomach. 

“Steve . . . he’s told you everything about  _ me _ , though, hasn’t he?” 

Bucky sounds . . . ashamed. And that shame in his voice makes Sam shift uncomfortably.

“No, he hasn’t. Not everything,” Sam answers. “Really, he just told me enough to help find you.” 

“Oh.” 

Bucky looks up at Sam again. His eyes look brighter and younger than Sam’s ever seen them.

“Well, I guess it worked,” Bucky says softly, cheekiness creeping into his voice again. “You found me.” 

Sam blinks at Bucky. He feels exposed, somehow. 

In the bathroom, Steve turns the shower off. The silence it creates feels deafening. 

**

The sun is just starting to set in the sky when Sam sees her. 

It’s the housekeeper, the Black girl, the one that reminds Sam of his family. Sam sees her moving past their door, her figure moving so fast that she looks like a blur. 

It’s too late for her to be here. Sam knows that: she starts work very, very late at night and leaves very early in the morning. Their room is usually her last stop.

Yet, here she is, hours after she’s supposed to have been gone, and hours before she’s supposed to return. And they’re just now noticing her there. 

“Shit.” Sam’s voice has gone hoarse. He fights the urge to open the door and call after her. There’s no point: she’s reported them to whoever is looking for them by now. 

Steve appears besides Sam, and he grips Sam’s forearm tightly. Bucky looks up from the paper he’s reading, his eyes wide.

“Let’s go,” Steve whispers, urgency and fear coating his words. 

**

Steve drives. He speeds down the roadway in a truck they stole. 

Sam doesn’t know how long they’ve been driving. He just knows that they’re far, far away from that motel at this point. 

It’s black dark on this stretch of road. There’s not a street light to be found. Even the truck’s high-beams can’t fully penetrate the darkness in front of them. But Steve drives as fast as he can anyway, never once slowing down. 

Sam sits in the passenger sit, his body rocking with every bump and pothole Steve hits. Bucky’s hunched up in the backseat, behind Steve. Occasionally, Sam glances at Bucky through the rear view mirror. Bucky keeps his head down, his shoulders hunched around his ears, and his hood pulled over his head. Sam watches Bucky’s inert figure until he realizes that he’s staring for too long. 

Sam is wired. He’s exhausted, and he knows he should sleep. He wishes he could sleep. But Sam is wide awake now.  He can’t help but just sit here, his heart pounding, replaying the moment he spotted the housekeeper over and over again. Sam has a thousand questions about that moment, but he knows they’d all be pointless to ask and impossible to answer. 

Every once in a while, Sam catches Steve looking at him, taking his eyes off of the road just long enough to give Sam an intense stare. Sam doesn’t return his gaze; he opts for looking out of the window instead, watching as the landscape becomes less and less distinctive. Sam figures it’s the least awkward of his options. He won’t be staring at Bucky, and he doesn’t have to watch Steve looking at him. 

The monotony of the landscape becomes mind-numbing and strangely hypnotic; Sam can’t look away. He can’t tear his eyes away from the barrenness of the desert outside of these windows. All he can do is focus on the pale brown dirt surrounding him until he falls asleep. 

**

_ “We’re under fire!  _ **_We are under fire!_ ** _ ” _

_ Damn it. Damn it, damn it,  _ **_damn it._ **

_ Sam flies wildly, twisting and turning and curving. Dodging bullets that he can sense and ones that fly past his radar.  _

_ They’re under fire. They’re getting shot at, and if they don’t get the fuck out of here they’ll shot out of the damn sky.  _

_ Sam can’t breathe. The wind is pushing against him, forcing too much air through his nose and into his chest.  _

_ He’s flying zig-zag, and his erratic pattern is making the pain his body even more obvious. He can’t breathe, and he can’t see, and he can hear the bullets and bombs and rockets exploding around him, too close, too close,  _ **_too close._ **

**_Riley!_ ** _ Where the fuck is Riley?! Sam wants to fully turn around and look Riley in his face to know he’s okay. Sam wants to call out to Riley, but he feels like he’s suffocating and he can’t move his body right or open his mouth. Sam rushes through the sky and he feels like he’s going to be torn apart.  _

_ Sam’s seconds away from death. He knows it.  _

_ “Sammy.” _

_ Sam hears Riley: His voice is small, too small to be real. Sam could never hear Riley in these circumstances.  _

_ But he hears it again, clearer and bolder in Sam’s ear: “Sammy,  _ **_Sammy._ ** _ ” Sam wants to turn around, to force himself towards that sound. _

_ Then, Sam sees him: Riley suddenly flies past Sam, coming from somewhere beneath him. Riley flies high in the air, his pattern erratic. Riley’s wings are damaged.  _

_ “Riley!” Sam’s voice gets lost in the wind. He can’t even hear himself. _

_ But, suddenly, Riley turns, forcing himself to face Sam. Riley opens his mouth to speak.  _

_ And then--a flash of light, so bright it’s blinding.  _

_ And then--a bang! So loud it must rupture an eardrum.  _

_ And then--smoke. Thick, black smoke circling around Sam.  _

_ And then--half of Riley’s wing, plummeting to the Earth, following out of the sky as if God had dropped it.  _

_ And then. Riley. Falling. down , down, down, down.  _

**

Sam’s chest hurts. 

It’s tight and it’s too full and it’s so bad that Sam wishes it would cave in. Sam tries to breathe, but too much wind rushes into his lungs. His heart is going to explode. 

“Sam!  _ Sam!  _ Wake up, Sam!” 

The voice--Steve’s--it reaches inside of Sam and untwists the knot that was forming. 

Sam opens his eyes just enough to look around. A new motel, a room Sam barely remembers walking into, and a bed that Sam doesn’t remember lying down in. A digital clock on the nightstand, reading 2:29 a.m. 

Bucky, sitting on the very edge of the foot of the bed, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, peering at Sam with sad blue eyes. 

And Steve, sitting next to Sam on the bed, his hand splayed across Sam’s chest. Steve leans forward, and he feels both too close and not close enough to Sam.

“It’s okay,” Steve mutters. “I got you. Okay? We got you.” 

Sam’s eyes fall close again. 


	6. Chapter 6

They need stuff. 

They need clothes. They need more money. They need  _ food.  _

They were going to have to move motels, anyway. It’s never been safe to stay in one place for too long. And usually, any three of them would have packed up and left before now.

But they’re all  _ tired.  _ Not just from this trip, but from every trip. From D.C., and New York, and Germany, and Jackson, Mississippi. From the hundreds and hundreds and thousands of miles that have settled into their bodies. They’re tired from the years they’ve spent running, and the years they’ve spent fighting, and even the years that they can barely remember. The years where maybe absolutely nothing at all happened, where empty days stretched into empty weeks and empty months. Where a thick fog of restlessness or despondency or pain surrounded them. 

They’re exhausted in a way that Sam never even knew existed: a way that they can never truly recover from. Sam could shut his eyes and never open them again, and that would be just fine with him.

But they need supplies. And they need to keep moving. So, Sam doesn’t get the luxury of falling asleep and never waking up again. He’s got to get going.  _ They’ve  _ got to keep going. Somehow, they’ve got to go. 

**

_ This heat is suffocating.  _

_ Sam can feel the sun burning his skin through his black suit jacket and dress pants. He thinks his tie is choking him. Sam knows that if he were to take off his suit jacket, everyone would be able to see the pit stains in his white dress shirt. God, even Sam’s feet feel sweaty and hot; his dress socks feel like hot pokers against his feet.  _

_ Sam desperately wants to strip. He wants to yank this damn tie off, snatch the jacket off of his shoulders and keep taking off clothes until he’s standing in his underwear. But he’s got a couple of more hours before he can even think about that.  _

_ Riley’s buried in Jackson, in the middle of summer.  _

_ The funeral was brief.  _

_ Sam made some remarks that he doesn’t remember because they were mostly lies or half-truths. He couldn’t exactly talk about Riley and him during a funeral service with Riley’s parents, younger brother and a bunch of sergeants and commanders around. _

_ Sam casts a look over to Riley’s parents. They’re huddled together, standing almost too close to the edge of the grave Riley’s casket will be lowered into. Riley’s mother cries and cries and cries, her thin, bony shoulders shaking as Riley’s father holds her.  _

_ Sam looks away from them. He looks at the ground, focusing on the small pieces of dirt between his feet. He doesn’t look at the casket or the grave. Sam keeps his head down even as he hears the whirl of the platform as Riley is put into the ground.  _

_ Sam feels childish.  _

_ He should be man enough to look. Sam should be mature enough to face the fact that Riley’s gone, that Riley fell out of the sky before Sam could even think to reach him, that Sam is alone now.  _

_ He should be man enough to face the fact that he failed--he fucking  _ **_failed._ ** _ He failed a simple mission, and he failed to save his own ass, and he failed to save the man he loves. Riley’s family has to grief because Sam fucking failed.  _

_ Sam failed, he  _ **_failed_ ** _. And he let Riley die.  _

_ The least Sam could do is to look up and face that failure.  _

_ But he can’t. Sam can’t even lift his eyes anymore.  _

_ So, instead, he just looks down, eyes focused on the ground. He stares at the dirt at his feet, focusing on the tiny ants crawling near his shoes.  _

**

There’s a little corner store within walking distance of this place. Sam remembers briefly seeing it when they were on the road. They  _ really  _ need to stock up on some snacks or something. 

It’s nearing dusk. Sam still has a couple of hours before it gets dark out. 

“I’ll be back,” Sam announces, shoving his wallet into his pocket.

Steve looks at Sam like Sam’s lost his mind while Bucky gives Sam a confused look. 

“You shouldn’t go alone, Sam,” Steve says sternly, standing up from the bed. “I’m coming with you.”

“No! Just--” Sam bites his tongue. 

Steve freezes, and Sam tries to ignore the look on his face.

“Just--stay put, okay?” Sam turns and opens the door.  “I can walk 10 minutes down the road by myself.” 

“Sam, it’s not  _ safe  _ to go alone,” Steve says tensely, like Sam is trying his patience.

“It’s not  _ safe  _ to go  _ with _ you!  _ You’re  _ the one with the most recognizable face in America!” Sam calls back, and yes, his tone is harsh, and no, he doesn’t look back to see the hurt look on Steve’s face. Sam just walks through the door and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

The door slams behind him, and the sound makes Sam flinch. He distantly hears the sound of his mama fussing at him.  _ Don’t slam no doors in this house! You don’t pay no bills around here, little boy! _

Sam takes a deep, shaky breath, and walks away from the room, from the memory, from the irrational anger still pooling in his stomach. But before Sam can even get off of the motel property, he hears someone run up behind him.

“ _ Cap, _ ” Sam says exasperatedly, turning around to face the footsteps. 

Except--no. Not Cap. Bucky. Who blinks at Sam and then slowly walks past him.

“We’re going to that little store, right?” Bucky asks, nodding his head towards the road. 

Sam watches Bucky warily as he slowly walks up to him. 

“Steve send you after me?” Sam demands. 

“No,” Bucky says. His voice is firm, but his eyes dart to the ground as he speaks. 

Bucky starts walking again, his hands shoved into his pockets. And Sam, dumbfounded, follows. 

**

_ Sam doesn’t re-enlist. Doesn’t even consider it, to be honest.  _

_ Gideon keeps asking him about it. “You sure you wanna do this?” over and over again. Gideon looks Sam upside his head like Sam’s crazy whenever they see each other now.  _

_ “You don’t think it’s weird to quit like that?” over and over again. Gideon just can’t help himself from asking.  _

_ Honestly, it doesn’t actually bother Sam all that much. It’s much better than the weird looks his mother and Sarah keep giving him.  _

_ They look at Sam with a mix of pity and suspicion They feel for Sam, sure, but they can’t help but think that Sam’s just a little bit  _ **_too_ ** _ sad about his friend dying. That’s just what happens, right? Friends die, especially in their line of work. It’s a little odd to throw a whole military career away for  _ **_one_ ** _ man, isn’t it? _

_Sam almost_ _wants to just come out to them. Almost. The memories of his father’s sermons kill that desire before it can grow any further._

_ Sam does try to explain it, though. He tries to explain the nightmares, the debilitating guilt, the coldness he feels in the center of his chest. Sam tries to get them to understand.  _

_ But they don’t. And they probably never will. Sam’s grief is just too big for them, and it flirts with possibilities that none of the would want to imagine. The version of Sam they have in their minds is too different from the one that’s standing right in front of them.  _

_ And that’ll have to be okay, because Sam doesn’t have the energy to keep trying. He doesn’t have it in him to keep digging the knife into the gaping wound in his chest and bleeding out so that his mother and sister and brother can possibly deduce that he can’t breathe right without Riley.  _

_ Sam’s tired. He’s so, so tired. And he just wants to rest now.  _

_ ** _

“What did you used to do in the army?”

Bucky asks the question out of nowhere, when they’re about five minutes away from the store. 

“I, uh--well, officially, I was pararescue and reconnaissance. That type of stuff,” Sam says. “But, thanks to the wings, I  _ unofficially  _ did whatever they needed me to.” 

Bucky nods, seemingly internalizing the information. “Did you like it? The work  you were doing?”

Sam starts to answer, but then bites his lip. 

“I . . . I liked  _ flying _ ,” Sam says after a moment. “I really liked flying. And I liked helping people.” 

Bucky glances over at Sam with a raised eyebrow. 

“But the army itself was . . . ?”

“It was . . .”  _ Good,  _ right? Fulfilling? Good for Sam, good for his family. Why isn’t this easier to answer?

“. . . It helped me. Gave me structure,” Sam says. “Helped me learn discipline, which I needed. I came up in Harlem, and my brother and I kind of stayed in trouble when we were teenagers. Joining the army made me grow up.”  

“A troublemaker in Harlem, huh?” Bucky says quietly. Then he smirks at Sam. “I can’t really imagine you being a troublemaker at all.”

Sam shrugs. He has a fleeting memory of him and his brother hiding from a security guard at the mall, and he smiles. 

“Wasn’t anything too serious,” Sam says. “Some fights, cutting class every now and then. Maybe shoplifting on a dare. Stupid kid stuff. But let my father tell it, I was on my way to doing hard time and disgracing his name in the process. ‘I didn’t raise a damn criminal! You gotta be better than what’s in those  _ streets _ !’” 

Bucky snorts and shakes his head, his long hair falling into his face. 

“Your dad sounds like my mom did,” he mutters. “ ‘I am raising a  _ good man _ , not a  _ criminal,  _ James!’ You  _ must  _ behave!’ Never heard the end of it.” 

“I thought Steve was the ‘troublemaker’ between you two?” Sam asks with a skeptical smile. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “He  _ was.  _ And I got in trouble for trying to keep  _ him  _ out of trouble.” 

“Ah, so some things never change.” 

Bucky suddenly looks very shy as he glances over at Sam. 

“I mean, things  _ have  _ changed, though, right? He’s the one getting into trouble for  _ me _ ,” Bucky says. “But . . . it does look like maybe you’re in trouble for him?” 

Sam’s face flushes, and he nearly trips over his own feet. 

“Yeah, guess so,” Sam says, forcing his voice to stay even.

Bucky seems to hear the shift in his tone; they walk the rest of the way to the store in silence. 

Sam feels a huge sense of relief when the rickety-looking store finally comes into view. It looks like a little mom-and-pop shop, with fliers from local events plastered on the front doors and two huge freezers standing out front. 

A little bell rings as Sam and Bucky walk through the door. A tired-looking cashier gives them a small, but pleasant smile as they walk through the store. Sam can tell just by looking at her that she’s been on her feet for hours. 

Sam and Bucky grab a few cans of soup, frozen sandwiches and burritos, bags of chips, and sugary drinks that all three should probably stay away from. Just as they’re heading for the cashier, a group of three loud men suddenly walk in, laughing and cursing boisteriously. 

Sam can smell the liquor from here, they’re so drunk. They’re all blond white boys, wearing rumbled hoodies, saggy jeansand raggedy-looking Vans. None of them look older than 21 at the most. 

One of them leans onto the counter, getting too close to the cashier’s face. 

“Hey, can I, uh, get a pack of Cheech and Chong?” he slurs. 

The cashier turns her nose up and leans away from him.

“How old are you?” she asks, giving him a once-over. 

The guy blinks at her, looking shocked and offended.

“None of your fucking business,” the guy says with sudden anger. “Now hurry the fuck up.”

Okay, Sam’s had enough. 

“Hey, man, watch your fucking mouth,” Sam growls. 

Drunk dude  and his two friends all turn to share at Sam.

“What’d you say?”  the guy demands, pushing himself off of the counter. 

Sam uses that moment to walk up to the counter and put his food down. The guy stumbles away from Sam as if Sam has just pushed him.

“I  _ said,  _ watch your fucking mouth,” Sam repeats tersely. “I don’t even know why you’re trying to buy papers. You’re so drunk you probably can’t even roll a blunt right.”

The cashier bites back a laugh. Drunk dude tilts his head at Sam and gives him an intense stare. All of a sudden, he swaggers into Sam’s space and pokes Sam hard in the arm. 

“Who the hell do you think you’re fucking talk--”

Before this drunken idiot can finish his question, Sam grabs his wrist and twists it around so that his palm is facing the ceiling. The guy’s whole upper half tilts to the side, and he looks utterly petrified. 

“Don’t  _ ever  _ put your hands on me. Or on anyone else,” Sam warns. “Didn’t your mama raise you better than  _ this _ ?” 

The guy tries to pull his arm away, but Sam’s grip doesn’t budge. Sam’s not even holding him all that tightly, but Sam knows that he’s a lot stronger than this kid. 

“Hey, man, back off of me!” He says through gritted teeth. 

Sam is glaring at the kid and considering squeezing his wrist when Bucky abruptly wraps his gloved metal hand around Sam’s bicep.

“He’s not worth it,” Bucky says. “Let him go so that they can get the hell outta here.” 

Sam sighs, then acquiesces, releasing the kid’s wrist. He immediately trips over his own feet and crashes into one of his buddies. He staggers as he tries to save face and straighten himself back up. 

“Let’s go,” he mumbles, blushing as he needlessly adjusts his jacket. 

The three guys exit the store, muttering about how fucking crazy Sam is as they go. Soon after, Sam hears them peel off in their car. 

The cashier sighs heavily as the sound of the speeding car fades.

“Thank you for that,” she says gratefully. 

Sam smiles at her. “No problem.” 

The cashier checks them, and Sam pays the full price of everything, despite her telling him that she wants to only charge him for half of their purchase. 

Soon enough, Sam and Bucky are leaving the store and heading back to the motel. 

“Thanks for playing peacemaker back there,” Sam says at one point. “Kept me from doing something extra super.”

Bucky smiles mischievously. “Wasn’t really playing peacemaker back there, actually. I kinda wanted to you to kick his ass.” 

Sam laughs, but he looks at Bucky in confusion.

“Then why’d you stop me?”

“Because I got what we  _ really  _ need,” Bucky says. Bucky then digs into his pocket and pulls out a huge wad of cash. “All those guys had  _ at least _ $80 in cash on them.”

Sam stops in his tracks and gapes at Bucky. Then he barks out a loud laugh.

“Didn’t you say you  _ weren’t  _ the troublemaker?” 

Bucky shrugs and grins at Sam.

“I had my moments.” 

**

Anxiety pours off of Steve. He takes stock of the food and the $323 Sam and Bucky have brought back. Then he rubs both of his eyes.

“Please don’t do that again,” Steve says with a groan. “ _ Please. _ ”

Sam and Bucky glance at each other. 

“No promises,” Sam says flatly. 

Steve looks up at Sam and weakly chuckles.

“Of course not.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Steve is scared.

Sam can see it in the way he paces, in the way he randomly reaches over and touches Bucky throughout the day. He can see it in the way Steve tenses whenever Sam steps outside of their room for more than a few minutes. 

Steve tries to hide it from Sam and Bucky. He tries to smooth his features out, look normal and approachable and calm and soft with them as he ever has. But Steve can’t fool them. He should know that by now. More and more, Sam finds himself sharing looks with Bucky, silently telegraphing his worry. They have entire conversations about Steve with just their eyes alone. 

There’s this frantic energy around Steve now; the air around Steve seems to crackle and sizzle. Steve sleeps less; his showers don’t last as long as they used to. He watches the windows with tense expectation in his eyes. 

Steve watches  _ them.  _ He watches Sam and Bucky all the time now, like they could disappear the moment he looks away. It’s almost unnerving. 

Sam understands; they’ve been caught before, and that housekeeper got a very good look at Sam’s face before they fled that motel. There’s  _ always _ a chance that they can get caught again, and they won’t be able to get away as quickly next time. 

But  _ damn.  _ Steve’s making Sam anxious, much more than he usually does. Sam feels dizzy if he stands too close to Steve; his stomach flutters, and his chest tighten and he feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. Sam always feel taut, stretched too tightly. Like a towel that’s being rung too many times. 

They need to  _ stop.  _ Sam knows it, Steve knows it. Bucky likely knows it, too. It’s getting harder to keep going: they’re running out of places to run from and run to. Soon enough, there will be no more places to hide. 

And what happens then? What happens when they’re corned and captured, when all three are taken someplace that doesn’t exist on any map? Where does the world they’re running from put “soldiers” like them? 

Sam doesn’t want to find out. None of them do. But, if they keep going like this, they will. 

**

_ Sam feels weak.  _

_ He always feels weak now. No matter how much he works out, no matter how much he eats or sleep--he feels weak. Sam feels  _ **_heavy_ ** _ , as if every one of his limbs has swollen too big for him to move.  _

_ Getting out of bed is almost too hard to do.  The morning sunlight feels like an assault against his eyes and his body. The very thought of conjuring up enough energy to sit up makes Sam feel frustrated. Waking up shouldn’t be so hard. The prospect of  _ **_living_ ** _ shouldn’t make Sam feel so helplessly angry and sad. It shouldn’t feel like a punishment.  _

_ But it does.  _

_ This is ridiculous, isn’t it? Sam’s alive, he’s healthy. The majority of his family is alive and healthy, too. He’s got a home, he’s got a lot of options for his future. Sam has more than many veterans have or will ever have. Sam shouldn’t be pouting, moaning and groaning. He should be happy to get up and go. He should be grateful. _

_ But Riley. _

_ Riley . . . is gone. Okay. He’s  _ **_gone._ ** _ Sam knows that curling up in bed and sobbing every night won’t bring him back. There’s nothing Sam can do to bring Riley back, so it’s pointless to lay his body in bed every day, staring at the spot where Riley used to lay, imagining the sleeping face Sam used to wake up to every morning. Nothing can bring back the feeling of Riley’s skin underneath Sam’s fingers, the feeling of his body pressed against Sam’s.  _

_ Riley is  _ **_gone._ ** _ So, Sam must move on.  _

_ But . . . he  _ **_can’t._ ** _ Sam can’t move on; he can barely move at all. He feels drained of whatever it is he had within him. Whatever urged him forward his left him here, laying on his back, lacking the gumption to do anything other than stare into the past.  _

_ It seems foolish that Sam’s whole self would be buried with Riley. But it was.  _

**

Sam’s barely fallen asleep when he hears rustling on the floor. His eyes are barely open when he hears something knock against the bedside table. 

It’s Steve. Tossing and turning, uncomfortably stretched out on the floor. He’s  _ always  _ sleeping on the floor lately. 

“Steve!” Sam calls, his voice heavy with sleep. 

Steve stills then sits up, his head turned towards Sam.

“You okay?” Steve asks, his voice clear as if he hasn’t been to sleep at all. 

“Get off of the floor,” Sam commands. It’s nearly a growl. 

“What?” 

In the other bed, Bucky turns over to face Sam’s direction. Sam can see Bucky prop himself up on his elbow. 

“You can’t sleep on the floor,” Sam says more calmly. “Just get in a bed. I don’t think either of us would mind.” 

Steve shifts on the floor, and Sam doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s uncomfortable.

Bucky shifts, too, moving himself closer to the edge of his bed. 

“You shouldn’t be sleeping like that,” he murmurs in agreement. “It’s fine if you wanna . . .” 

Steve says nothing. He doesn’t move an inch. They’ve put him on the spot, and Sam will feel about it in the morning. But right now his arms are shaking and his eyelids are falling shut.

“Just pick one,” Sam hears himself grumble. “Mine or Bucky’s, doesn’t matter.”

Sam collapses back onto the bed, falling asleep without waiting for an answer. 

**

Steve is still on the floor--his body rigid, discomfort written all over his face--when Sam wakes up hours later. 

Sam watches Steve’s body and sighs. Then he looks up and sees Bucky watching him with something like resignation in his eyes. 

**

_ Sarah gets tired of Sam one day.  _

_ She shows up on his doorstep in D.C. out of the blue, saying she’s in town for a tech conference for a few days and that she’s left Shayla at home with Mama.  _

_ “How could I come to D.C. and not see my big brother?” Sarah asks nicely, but Sam can see the unease behind her smile. _

_ She must be tired of his depressed-sounding phone calls and texts. Maybe she’s disturbed by the fact that’s been months since he’s physically seen any of them. Or maybe Mama got into her ear, whispering her concerns about her oldest son.  _

_ Either way, she’s here. Sarah’s here, and she’s needling Sam about his state of mind, about his work, about how messy his apartment is. She’s probing and prodding and really, Sam is over it. He doesn’t know what she wants him to say. _

_ Lord knows Sam wants to send her away. Away to her hotel room, to Harlem, back whence she came. Anywhere so that she doesn’t realize just how not okay Sam is. But Sarah doesn’t leave: she spends the next week floating in and out of Sam’s place, stopping by for breakfast or lunch or to escape whatever techy nerds she’s conferencing with.   _

_ Sam’s careful about what he tells her. He’s got a program assistant job at the VA, basically running behind the mental health clinic’s chief of staff and making sure shit’s not falling apart. It’s not that hard--basically a bunch of desk work that pays decently. It’s fine, just fine.  _

_ And yes, his apartment is a mess, but it’s not so bad. Sam jokingly apologizes for not having the energy to make his place spotless; he pretends that the junk isn’t driving him up the fucking wall. Sam acts like he doesn’t wake up every morning, look at the clothes and shoes strewn all over the floor and barely stop himself from screaming.  _

_ But it’s fine. It’s all fine. The week is okay. Soon enough, he’s riding with Sarah to the airport, seeing her off to her flight back to New York.  _

_ “Hey, Sam?” she asks as she steps out of Sam’s car.  _

_ “Yeah?”  _

_ “Have you ever actually  _ **_gone_ ** _ to any of those counseling sessions at the VA?”  _

_ “Um . . . no?” Sam blinks. For some reason, the question catches him off guard.  _

_ Sarah gives him an intense stare. _

_ “Promise you’ll go to one. At least one. Okay?”  _

_ Sam’s tired, and Sarah’s got a flight to catch. He doesn’t have it in him to argue with her. _

_ “Okay. Yeah, okay.”  _

_ ** _

“You need to figure out where you’re going.” 

Steve and Bucky look up at Sam like Sam’s suddenly spoken in a foreign language. The three of them have barely spoken a word aloud in nearly four days. 

Sam looks Steve in his eyes, forcing himself to look as certain as possible.

“Steve, you need to figure out a destination,” Sam says firmly. “It’s impossible for us to just keep running around hiding out in these motels. You need to figure out where you and Bucky are gonna land.” 

Bucky frowns in confusion and looks over to Steve. Steve, however, is still looking at Sam.

“You’re right,” Steve says after a brief silence. Steve sighs heavily and rubs his eyes. “I’ll admit I didn’t exactly plan this out.” 

_ Of course you didn’t, _ Sam thinks, suppressing  a smile. Steve wouldn’t be Steve if he actually stuck to a plan, would he?

Bucky is still frowning, and now he’s looking at Sam suspiciously. Bucky’s expression reminds Sam of when they first met, when they didn’t know what to make of one another. It’s startling. 

“What?” Sam mouths. 

But Bucky doesn’t answer. He just casts his eyes towards the floor. 

After a long silence, Steve speaks up again.

“Some time ago, Nat told me about abandoned S.H.I.E.L.D. ‘safe houses.’ Random buildings S.H.I.E.L.D. had briefly used as bases or shelters before leaving them. They were all across the U.S., in small towns people forget exist.” 

Sam nods, sensing where Steve is going with this. Bucky glances towards Steve with a raised eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Steve chuckles humorlessly. “Nat actually told me she almost died in one. She’d been shot a few times and was bleeding and delirious, and she forgot the safe house she went to wasn’t operational anymore.” 

“Hard to believe Nat would forget something like that,” Sam murmurs. “Hard to believe she would forget  _ anything. _ ” 

“We all have our moments, I suppose,” Steve mutters. He looks far away. “Might be our best bet at this point.” 

“How do we know that these are really ‘abandoned?’” Sam can’t help but probe. “What if S.H.I.E.L.D.’s got a surprise for us?” Like the housekeeper, young and small and watching them. 

“We don’t,” Steve answers. “We’re taking a risk. A big one.” 

Well, they’re used to that, right? 

Sam nods stiffly. “You remember any of these locations?” 

“Well,  _ that  _ one was in Salome, Arizona,” Steve answers. 

Arizona. Sam bites back a scoff. Hearing the location makes him realize that he genuinely has no idea where they are right now; he can’t remember a town name to save his life. They could be hundreds and hundreds of miles away. 

“Salome, it is,” Sam says quietly. 

Steve nods, tries to smile at Sam. Bucky grits his teeth, and he doesn’t look up at either of them. 

**

As it turns out, they are about 754 miles outside of Salome. It’ll take them nearly 12 hours to get there. Honestly, it sounds like a field trip compared to what they’ve done before. 

They leave in the middle of the night, making sure the room is spotless before they go. Steve drives. Bucky sits in the passenger seat, still strangely sullen. And Sam stretches out in the back, too tired to fall asleep, letting his body rock and move with the bumpiness of the road. 

They drive, and Sam stares at the ceiling of the truck, and he wonders for maybe the 100th time what he’s actually doing here. How’d he end up  _ here _ , stretched out in the back of a stolen car, on the road to a town he’s never heard of? 

Sam turns his head just enough so that he can see Steve and Bucky. Even their shadows appear tense, anxious about the mystery of the road ahead. Sam watches the outlines of their bodies, his eyes following the way the two of them rock and sway as Steve drives. He can hear them murmuring, their voices just barely piercing the night. 

_ You’re in love.  _ It’s a soft voice, and the words float through Sam’s mind like a fading dream. But he feels them all the same.  _ You’re in love again, you dumb ass.  _


	8. Chapter 8

They’ve stopped. 

Sam opens his eyes. It’s dark out; either Sam has not slept very much at all, or he’s slept for far too long. The truck is still and quiet, parked on the side of the road. 

For a moment, the stillness scares Sam, and anxiety spreads through his chest. Then he feels the truck move; Steve moving around in the front seat, moving so that he faces Bucky. 

Oh, okay. They’re still inside of the truck. Steve and Bucky are talking, whispering fiercely at one another. _Arguing._

“Do you _really_ think this will work out?” Bucky’s voice is strained and raspy. “Because I don’t.” 

Sam turns over as slowly and quietly as possible, trying to not give them any indication that he’s awake. Sam thinks they’re most honest when they think he’s sleeping. 

Sam can see Steve lift a head to his eyes. 

“Buck . . .” Steve’s voice trails. He’s never sounded so stressed. 

“ _Steve_.” Bucky sounds impatient, agitated. “Come on, now. Doesn’t this seem wrong to you?”

Steve’s quiet. Then: “Yeah, it does. It _is_ wrong, I think.” 

Sam wants to sit up, lean into their space and demand to know what’s so _wrong._ Sam bites the inside of his cheek instead, and closes his eyes. He can still picture Steve’s anxious face in his mind. 

“It’s selfish,” Bucky says with finality. “And it’s not fair.”

“I know,” Steve’s voice is so soft. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Sam’s starting to drift to sleep again. That overwhelming exhaustion he’s been feeling for weeks, months, years overtakes him again. 

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” Sam hears Bucky admonish. 

Before Sam can interrogate Bucky’s words or the sound of his voice, he falls into a fitful sleep, his mind wandering into nothing.

**

Morning comes before Sam is ready. 

He wakes up groggy, his back sore and body stiff, alone in the backseat of their stolen truck. 

Sam jolts up, heartbeat kicking up, looking around nervously. Sam finally spies Steve, standing outside near the hood of the truck, his shoulders slumped as he leans against the vehicle. Suddenly, Steve stands up straight and turns around to face Sam. He sighs with relief when he looks at Sam’s face. Steve walks over and opens the door, leaning into the truck to speak to Sam.

“Morning,” Steve says with a soft smile. “I was gonna wake you up in a little bit.” 

Steve looks _tired_ , Sam thinks.

“Thanks,” Sam says, cringing at the sound of his own voice. “Where’s . . . ?”

Steve nods towards the building behind him. “Washing up. Hasn’t been in there long.” 

Sam looks behind Steve to find a rest stop that Sam would’ve accidentally driven past. It’s a small, rickety and dingy little place, with missing shingles, dim windows and brown brick faded by sun exposure. Outside, there’s a stand displaying maps and travel brochures, offering tips for navigating tourism in Phoenix, Arizona. 

“At least we’re in the state, now,” Sam grumbles, shifting and moving until he’s sitting upright. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Steve mumbles, peering over his shoulder. “No much longer, I think.”

Sam nods silently. He can’t even remember what he was going to say; he’s too busy staring at the side of Steve’s face. Steve’s got laugh lines, Sam notices. Three small, faint lines around the edges of Steve’s bright blue eyes. Signs that, once upon a time, Steve had a lot of reasons to laugh and smile and feel _good._ To feel happy. 

Steve’s still facing the rest stop and he’s talking again, but his voice sounds muffled and distant to Sam. Sam’s fixated on those lines, on the reminder that Steve was actually enjoying his life. 

 _With Bucky,_ Sam thinks detachedly. _Yeah. Probably all with Bucky._

Sam’s entirely certain that he’s had his own moments of happiness and joy and laughter. He just can’t conjure up any memories at the moment. 

“Steve?” Sam dimly interrupts.

Steve immediately looks at Sam’s face, blinking at him.

“Yeah?”

Sam opens his mouth, but his voice falters. It seems childish to ask this now. 

But Steve’s looking at him, his expectant look slowly morphing into worry. 

“Sam?”

“ . . . What do you and Bucky talk about at night? When we should all be sleep?” 

Steve looks positively gobsmacked. He blinks too fast, and his nostrils flare, and he tilts his head like a confused golden retriever. There’s a small, immature part of Sam who loves that he’s managed to trip Steve up like this. 

“What do you . . . ?” _Mean? Think? Hear?_ Steve’s still looking taken aback, and Sam sees guilt starting to spread across Steve’s face. 

Sam shrugs. “Just wondering,” Sam says with fake casualness. “Do you guys talk about the past, or maybe this ‘trip’?” _Or maybe me?_

Steve blushes faintly, and maybe that’s all the answer Sam needs. 

Bucky walks out of the rest stop before Sam can press any other answer. Bucky’s shoulders are hunched, and his eyes are downcast. He doesn’t look up at Sam at all. 

But Sam pretends to pay it no mind. He digs  into his bag on the floor, pulling out his toothbrush and toothpaste, then walks directly past them both into the rest stop. 

“I’ll drive when we’re done,” Sam calls back. Then he walks into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. 

**

_The first meeting isn’t so bad._

_Sam doesn’t say much; just introduces himself and makes a couple of remarks about how weird it feels to go home after a tour. Sam makes a dry quip about feeling homesick quickly becomes feeling sick of home, and people actually laugh at it. It’s nice to make someone smile, even if it is a group of strangers._

_These people have been through_ **_a lot._ ** _Wars, near-death experiences, hallucinations, night terrors, broken families. Everyone in Sam’s group has lost at least one person they love. They’ve all lost a part of themselves, too._

 _Some stories are almost too hard to take in. But Sam listens. He listens and understands them. These people are_ **_like_ ** _him; their lives line up with Sam’s, with the same turbulence and disillusionment and pain._

_For the first time in a long time, Sam feels like he’s not alone._

_Sam wants to hold onto that feeling, that sense of  camaraderie that has eluded him for months. Sam knows all too well that the good feelings can fade almost instantly._

**

Sam drives for hours. 

Bucky lays down in the backseat, curled in on himself, his back facing towards Sam and Steve. It’s unnerving how still he is the entire time. 

The day dwindles into night. Steve falls asleep eventually. And Sam drives until they’re just shy of Phoenix. 

He pulls over eventually, driving off of  the side of some random road in the desert. You can tell they’re nearing a city now; there are more street lights and billboards, more rest stops along the highway. There are more signs of human life all around. 

But they’re alone now, and that’s good. The road they’re on is still dark enough to hide on, and that’s good, too. 

On impulse, Sam gets out of the truck, carefully closing the door so that it doesn’t slam behind him. The desert gets cool at night, and the air nips at Sam’s skin as he leans against the door. Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, taking in as much air as he can. Like it’s the first time he’s gotten fresh air in his entire life. 

Sam doesn’t know how he long he’s standing there before his knees start to shake. Sam pushes himself off of the truck, but he doesn’t want to get back into the driver’s seat. Before he can talk himself into being reasonable, Sam climbs into the bed of the truck, squirming around until he’s able to comfortably lie down. 

Sam doesn’t close his eyes this time. He stares up at the sky instead, taking note of how big and bright the stars are. Millions of years stare back at him, and Sam feels so small. And alone. 

“ . . . Sam?”

Sam chuckles softly, listening to Steve’s footsteps as  he hesitantly walks to the bed of the truck. Of course, of course. 

“Climb in,” Sam says, keeping his eyes towards the sky. 

Steve does climb in, adjusting himself until he’s lying next to Sam, his arm pressing against Sam’s. 

And they’re dead silent for a long, long time before Steve finally speaks.

“Last night . . . Buck and I . . . we were talking about you,” Steve confesses.

Sam bites down on his tongue, and he focuses on the brightest star in the sky. It’s right above his eyes, shining so brilliantly that it looks close enough to touch.

“I figured as much,” Sam finally responds. “Let me guess--he’s finally tired of me being the third wheel? Three’s become a crowd?” 

“No.” Steve says with a sigh. “Not at all, actually.”

Sam frowns in confusion. “Then . . . ?” 

"He’s upset with me,” Steve continues. “Because he feels like I’ve mistreated you.” 

Sam, stunned, finally looks over at Steve. Steve stares back at him, contrition written all over his face.

“I feel like I have, too, if I’m being honest,” Steve says. 

Sam gapes. He feels like someone’s wrapped their hands around his throat. 

“You didn’t _make_ me come here,” Sam’s suddenly so irritated that his voice shakes. “I’m not some helpless victim, Steve.”

“I know, I know.” It’s supposed to be declarative statement, but it sounds more like pleading. 

Sam sits up. He’s trembling, and his chest feels tight. “Then _why_ are you treating me like one?” 

Steve sits up, too. He’s so close that, even in the fucking dead of night, Sam can see his eyelashes. 

“I ask too much of you,” Steve mutters. “And you don’t get anything in return. And I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.” 

Sam blinks. His eyes burn as tears rolling down his cheeks. Whatever argument Sam had on his tongue dies in his mouth. 

Because Steve is right. He’s fucking right. And Sam hates them both for it. 

“I don’t ask you for anything. Never have, and I never will,” the words barely make it out of Sam’s mouth. “You don’t have anything I want.” 

It’s a lie. They both know it. 

Steve’s hand finds sam’s cheek. Steve’s forehead finds Sam’s forehead. And, before Sam can use his common sense to protest it, Steve’s lips find Sam’s lips. 

Steve kisses Sam _hard_ ; all the anxiety and pain and desire in Steve is poured into this kiss, and Sam can feel every ounce of it. Sam melts into the kiss, and, once again, he lets Steve overwhelm him. Sam ends up on his back, Steve’s body heavy against his. Sam’s hands slide up Steve’s shirt, and he feels hot skin against the pads of his fingers. Steve’s hands start to roam. It’s been way too long since someone’s hands have found Sam’s skin, and Sam holds onto the moment. 

Sam kisses Steve back and runs his hands up his back, and he thinks that in the morning, when he feels nothing but regret, he’ll at least be able to take solace in the fact that Steve reached for him first. 

**

Steve drives.

They drive straight through Phoenix as if it were merely another small town. Sam stares out of the window, and he tries his hardest to pretend he’s anywhere else in the world right now. And Bucky just watches them both, slowly shifting his gaze from one to another. 

**

Before Sam realizes it, they’ve arrived in Salome.

The safe house is near the edge of the town, on an unnamed road near Sleepy Hollow Lane. 

Sam’s gotta hand it to S.H.I.E.L.D; they picked someplace very inconspicuous. It just looks like an empty house in the middle of nowhere, in a town of around 2,000. It’s a wide, single-story home, painted light gray and black. A place that you would truly not see if you weren’t actively looking for it. 

Steve parks the truck near the back of the house. It’s high noon, and the sun has returned with a vengeance. The three of them get out of the truck, and Sam shivers despite the heat. Sam’s stomach flutters; something in the air around them has shifted. 

“Wait here,” Steve says, approaching the house cautiously. 

Neither Sam or Bucky argue. Bucky stands close to Sam as they watch Steve walk inside of the house.

“I’m not going to see you again, am I?” Bucky’s tone is accusatory. And if Sam didn’t know any better, he’d think Bucky sounded hurt. 

“You’d want to?” Sam glances at Bucky and catches him staring at Sam. 

"I don't understand why you helped him." Bucky looks at Sam with pain and regret in his eyes. "I . . . I don't understand why you came."

Sam scoffs, and stares at the cracked, uneven pavement beneath his feet.

"Because I'm stupid, Buck," he answers. "That's the only reason I can think of."

Bucky flinches, and his jaw twitches. Sam can see that he’s got a thousand things to say. But they’ll have to wait. 

“Sam, Buck . . .” Steve’s voice has a hard edge to it as he calls out to them.

Sam and Bucky look up, both prepared to fight or run or both. Steve walks towards them, his body tense. 

Sam looks over Steve’s shoulder, and his heart drops. Natasha Romanoff stands there, that small half-smile on her face.

Bucky blinks at her, shock and confusion in his eyes.

“I . . . know you,” he mutters.

Natasha nods.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “You do.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ........Sorry.

“I figured you guys would come to _this_ one.” 

Natasha smiles demurely as she watches them from the armchair across the room. Her shoulders are slumped, and her eyes look tired. Her red hair is twisted into a messy braid at the nape of her neck, but long strands have found a way to escape and hang in front of her face. Her clothes are absolutely unextraordinary--an oversized gray t-shirt, a dusty-gray jacket, baggy black jeans and dirty black boots. 

She looks nothing like the Natasha Sam’s kept in his mind. Sam doesn’t recall her looking so small. 

Bucky shifts uncomfortably on the couch. Bucky’s the only one of the three of them who’s sitting. Steve’s hovering by the front door, tense and radiating anger. And Sam’s squeezed himself into a corner of the room, standing across from where Natasha’s sitting. 

Natasha looks around the room, her eyes lingering on a generic picture of  a forest hanging both the fireplace.

“There’s a keypad behind that picture,” Natasha says distantly. “It’s supposed to turn on the elevator hidden in that ‘fire place’ and take you down to a control room. But it hasn’t worked in years. I didn’t know that the last time I was here.”

Sam notices that Bucky watches Natasha carefully, studying her face, closely following her words. Sam wants to ask Bucky about how he _knows_ Natasha, but he’s almost certain that he actually doesn’t want to know the answer. 

Natasha scoffs to herself. “Of all the places I’ve almost died, this place was one of the worst, I think.”

“You lured us here,” Steve interrupts harshly.  

“I didn’t _lure_ you anywhere,” Natasha argues. Then she shrugs. “I have, however, had people following you for a while.”

“For how long? Since we found him?” Steve demands.

“A short time after,” Natasha answers. “It was hard keeping track of you guys at first. To be as famous as you guys are, you managed to keep a pretty low profile.” 

_Not low enough_ , Sam thinks. Because they got caught at the first motel they stopped at, didn’t they? Then a realization suddenly dawns on Sam. 

“The housekeeper helped though, right?” Sam interjects.

Steve and Bucky both look at Sam, and Steve’s jaw twitches. Sam remembers the fear in the young woman’s eyes, and the way she gripped the towels she saw Bucky. 

Natasha nods. “Yeah, she did. She alerted me when she saw you at a motel in Washita County, Oklahoma. Of course, by the time I got there, you guys were long gone.”

“She work for S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“No,” Natasha says with a sad smile. “Just for me. Those guys at that store used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D, though. Before it all fell.”

Sam’s stomach drops; how could he not have guessed, or at least suspected something?

“They reported back to me a bit faster,” Natasha continues, as if it were no big deal. “And we were able to keep track of you when you guys left that time

“Guys at the store,” Steve repeats, slowly  looking over to Sam then Bucky. 

 Bucky looks up at Sam with wide, guilty eyes. Sam pictures the smirk Bucky had on his face when he’d showed him the stolen money. Sam rubs his eyes; he can feel a headache coming. 

“I should’ve broken his arm,” Sam grumbles. 

The sad smile turns into a smirk, and suddenly Natasha looks like the Nat Sam knows.

“He thought you were going to,” she says.

“Okay, look, Natasha,” Steve says firmly. “If you’re trying to take us to the CIA or whoever, that’s not happening.”

Natasha chuckles softly and brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. 

“The government and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now,” Natasha responds. “I’m not here with them.” 

“. . . Then what are you doing here?” Sam asks skeptically. 

“Believe it or not,” Natasha says with a sigh, “I’m here for Stark. For Tony.”

Bucky’s suddenly off of the couch and moving away from Natasha, walking backwards until he’s standing right by Steve.

“No.” Steve says. “That’s not happening.” Steve is all tension and anger, and Bucky seems to shrink next to him. 

The sudden shift in the room puts Sam on high alert and feeling like they’ll have to make a break for it at any second. _Not that we would get too far,_ Sam thinks bitterly. 

Natasha looks at Steve pointedly. “Tony is _also_ not exactly on speaking terms with our government, if that’s what you--”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not happening, Natasha.” 

“Steve, Tony wants--”

“To kill me,” Bucky finishes. “Because of what I did to his parents.” 

Wait. 

Stark’s parents, who supposedly died in a car accident in the 90s. Tragically cut down while Howard was working on a project with S.H.I.E.L.D. . . 

“To his _parents_?” Sam demands, looking Steve directly in the face. “Howard and Maria Stark?” 

“Yes,” Steve says with a heavy sigh. 

Sam blinks, the new knowledge hitting him over the head. But then again, why should he be surprised? HYDRA used the Winter Soldier to take out their most threatening targets. Why wouldn’t the Starks be on that list? 

“And you already knew about this, right?” Sam grills Steve. “This isn’t new information to you.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve quietly confesses. “I’ve known for . . . sometime now.” 

Steve glances up at Natasha, who nods. Sam looks at the both of them, and it doesn’t take him too long to realize when they learned about happened to the Starks. 

“ ‘Sometime’ being a couple of years,” Sam supplies. “And you never felt the need to make me privy to that information? You didn’t think I would need that bit of insight?” 

Bucky shuts his eyes. He looks so small and scared that Sam can barely believe that his is the same body that’s committed so many assassinations to begin with, let alone to have been the one that murdered Tony Stark’s mother and father. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Steve says. He glances over to Bucky quickly before shifting his gaze back to Sam. “I should’ve told you everything. I wasn’t thinking--”

“Oh, you _were_ thinking, Steve,” Sam interrupts. “You were thinking of _Bucky._ He’s _all_ you were thinking about.” 

Which makes sense, right? Bucky means more to Steve than anything else in this life, and Sam knows that. Bucky means more than Steve’s title, than the Avengers, than everything Steve’s worked for up until this point. James Buchanan Barnes is the center of Steve’s universe. Everyone else is just an obstacle. Or a distraction. 

Steve’s face falls, and his whole body seems to sag. Bucky silently peers up at Sam through his eyelashes. 

Natasha stands up from the armchair. 

“Look, guys,” Natasha says, “Tony doesn’t want to _kill_ James. He wants to know what happened. And he wants to figure out some way forward for us.” 

Steve and Bucky both stand rigidly, looking distrusting and exhausted. Sam’s head is pounding, and he’d give anything to just fall onto the floor right now. 

Natasha gives the two of them a hard stare.

“It’s not as if we have many other options right now,” Natasha says. “I don’t think your stubbornness is going to help either of you at this point.” 

Sam watches them all. Steve doesn’t want to budge; Sam can see it in the way his jaw is set. And Bucky won’t go anywhere without Steve. And, for a moment, Sam starts to wonder what’s the move, where’s the next hideaway, how much distance they could put between themselves and Natasha and Tony.

And then, it hits Sam--this isn’t about him. It doesn’t have anything to do with him at all. “We” doesn’t mean Steve and Bucky _and_ Sam anymore. And maybe Sam was being childish to ever think it did.

Natasha’s not even talking to him right now. 

So, Sam stands up straight, rolls his shoulders back and heads for the door.

Steve and Bucky both look at him in alarm and bewilderment as Sam approaches them.

“Excuse me,” Sam says coldly. “Let me through.”

Steve, hurt, gapes at Sam.

"Sam, where are you--"

" _Home_ ," and the word feels like a sigh of relief. "I'm going _home,_ Steve. I don't need to be here anymore."

Sam gestures between the two of them. "You two? You have to figure out you next step. You have to figure out what's best for you. _I_ don't. So, I'm going home."

Sam stands firm as he stares at them. He does not waiver; he refuses to be tempted to change his mind, to listen to that pathetic little voice in his head that is _begging_ him to stay. Sam won't do it. Not this time. 

"Well," Natasha says quietly, "if you want to go, will you let me help you get there?"

"Yes," Sam answers through gritted teeth. Steve looks defeated, and Bucky looks ashamed, and Sam hated himself for how much it hurts. "Yeah, I will."

**

One of the agents Natasha’s apparently got working for her drives Sam into Phoenix in the back of the most nondescript black truck Sam’s ever seen. From there, Sam’s ushered into a red-eye flight to D.C. 

Sam has no idea what time it is when he arrives; he just knows that it’s black dark outside, and that he’s _tired._ Sam drags himself from the airport to his house, and it’s been so long that he’s been to this place that he’s almost forgotten what it looked like. Sam is stumbling through the living room, re-familiarizing himself with the house he bought, when his eyes fall onto a picture of him & Riley, standing side-by-side, grinning from ear to ear. 

It’s over. 

That whole journey, all that time with them, all that running and hiding and stress and _fear_. It’s all over within six hours. 

And here Sam is, in his living room, staring at a picture of Riley as if all those years never happened. As if it’s all been a long, painful, horrid nightmare. 

**

_Sam hates running. He always has._

_Riley used to love this shit. He loved being sweaty and out of breath at the end. He loved the way his leg muscles burned after having run for miles and miles. Riley always said the pain of running made him feel invincible._

_That shit didn’t make sense to Sam then, and it doesn’t make sense to him now. But damn near everyone in Sam’s support group has raved about taking up running has helped them. The peer pressure has gotten to be too much to handle._

_So, Sam decides to start running in the National Mall. He’s been running for about two weeks, and he still wants to fucking die every morning. His legs feel like Jell-o, sweat pours down the front of his sweatshirt, and the huffing and puffing makes his lungs burn._

_Sam complains about running one morning during the group session, and everyone just chuckles at him._

_“Just keep it up,” one woman says. “It’ll get easier. And hey, you might run into somebody cute one morning,” she adds with a wink._

_Everyone laughs again while Sam just waves her off. Yeah, right, as if_ **_that_ ** _will ever happen._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you things will get less sad soon, but we gotta let the pain run its course, okay?

Sam wakes up at dusk.

He wakes up disoriented and confused; he glances around the room, looks out of a window, and sees that the sky has turned a dusty-looking mix of blue and gray. Sam sits up in a too-soft bed, and he has to grasp the sheets to remember they’re  _ his  _ sheets. Ones he bought a long time ago for  _ his  _ bed in  _ his  _ house. 

He’s home. In D.C. Sam is actually home. 

Sam searches for his phone so that he can figure out what time it is. And it takes about 10 minutes of searching before Sam finally remembers that he doesn’t have a phone anymore. Hasn’t had one in . . . shit, a couple of months, right? Since that day Sam convinced them they needed to get rid of them. In a cramped motel room that was apparently tucked away somewhere in Washita County, Oklahoma. 

Sam scoffs to himself. How idiotic it is that he went all that way without really knowing where they were going, what town or county or even state they were stopping in. They were just going. Moving as far and as fast as they could. 

Sam drags himself into the shower. He turns the water hot as he can stand, pours as much body wash into his washcloth that he can, and scrubs his body until his arms start to feel sore. Sam scrubs and scrubs and scrubs, and by the time he’s washing his legs, he’s trembling. Sam just barely manages to stand up straight again; he has to lean against the wall of the shower to support himself. Sam turns the water off, and slowly climbs out of the shower, very afraid that he’s going to fall on the floor before he can dry himself. 

Sam looks at himself in the mirror and, for the first time, he notices how much  _ smaller  _ he is. His cheeks are slimmer, and his eyes look sunken. His collarbone is more apparent than it was when he was a teenager. Sam looks like a sketch of his old self, as if someone tried to draw him from a scant memory.  He wonders how long he’s looked like this. 

Sam finally manages to dry himself and get dressed. His own clothes feel scratchy against his overly-sensitive skin. Sam ends up collapsed across the bed again, his body sinking into the mattress.

Sam should eat something. He should unpack that bag he brought back home with him. Hell, he should check and make sure no part of the house is bugged. He should at least try to figure out what time it is, or even what day it is.

But Sam can’t do anything. All he can do is lie here and stare at his white ceiling, too tired to fall asleep again. Sam stares at the ceiling and tries his hardest to think of nothing at all. 

**

_ It’s weird to see Steve at the VA.  _

_ Sam spots Steve just as Sam’s wrapping up group for the day. Steve’s standing in the back, a small smile on his face as he watches Sam. Sam somehow manages to not trip over his words when he sees Steve standing there. He feels very, very proud of himself for that fact. _

_ Afterwards, Steve drifts out of the door while Sam chats with a couple of people from group. From the corner of his eye, Sam sees that Steve is standing out in the hall, looking up at the some of the pictures on the wall.  _

_ “Yoo, how’d you get a superhero to come today??” A woman named Jamie suddenly asks, startling Sam out of his thoughts. _

_ Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. I just asked him to come by, and he did.”  _

_ Jamie looks at him with a raised eyebrow.  _

_ “I am entirely certain there’s more to that story, but whatever, Wilson,” she says with a laugh. “I need to learn how to make famous friends, too.”  _

_ Sam chuckles. “I do  _ **_not_ ** _ have a ‘famous friend,’ Cruz.”  _

_ Jamie looks over to where Steve is standing and smirks.  _

_ “You sure about that? Because he’s looking at you with a goofy grin on his face.” _

_ Sam turns to look at Steve. sure enough, Steve is watching Sam with a smile on his face. When Steve notices Sam looking, he waves at him. _

_ And Sam, shocked and a little giddy, waves back.  _

**

D.C. looks strange to Sam now.

He notices the feeling when he goes for a walk one day. Sam looks at all the concrete and crowds around him, and he feels dizzy. It’s amazing how quickly he got used to empty terrain and open space. Just walking around the city feels like an overwhelming chore. 

Sam finds himself sitting on a park bench, people watching. He used to this for some perverse sense of fun, but now it feels like a necessity. Sam’s got to watch his surroundings now more than ever. He’s always on the alert, his back and shoulders tense. Sam wonders if he’ll ever really relax again. 

There’s an old Black couple that catches Sam’s eye. They’ve got to be nearing their 80's. Sam likes to think that his grandparents would look like this if any of them had lived to see 80-something. They’re slowly walking through the park, hand-in-hand, laughing and smiling and joking with one another. The woman’s glasses start to slip down her face, and the man gently pushes them back up, being extra careful of her nose. 

They’re in love. And it makes Sam’s heart hurt. 

**

Sam has to get a new phone.

It’s this wildly discombobulating experience that shows Sam that he’s truly ruined for life. Because he couldn’t just walk into a phone store and buy one. 

No Sam had to check every corner, nook and cranny in the store’s area to make sure no one was following him first. Sam had to watch everyone out of the corner of his eyes, including the 20-year-old sales kid who helps Sam out in the store. 

Sam looks at this kid’s face, and all he can remember is that Natasha sent  _ young  _ spies to stalk them. Kids that would normally say “Yes, sir” to Sam. They were completely unassuming until they weren’t. 

Sam pays for the phone, walks out of the store, and just barely stops himself from immediately breaking it open to see if there’s a tracking device somewhere inside. Sam feels himself looking over his shoulder, and it dawns on him that he’s fucking paranoid. 

He’s losing his damn mind. And he doesn’t know how to hold onto it. 

**

Sam doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He can admit that to himself now.

He’s been back for almost a month. It still feels wrong.

Sam’s bed still doesn’t feel like his bed. His clothes still don’t fit right. Sam still can’t walk outside without his heart pounding. The streets that he’d acquainted himself with years ago seem foreign and dangerous now. 

Sam doesn’t even want to go back to the VA. The place reeks of tainted memories. It seems haunted by a version of Sam that doesn’t exist anymore, one who had taken his brief moment of stability for granted. Simply stepping into that space feels like a betrayal of some kind. 

Sam’s never felt like this before. Lord knows he was a mess when he first left the military, but it was never  _ this  _ bad. It was never to a point where the whole felt like it was closing in on him. It was never to the point where Sam felt like he had absolutely no one in the world that would understand him. Sam always had  _ somebody _ , didn’t he? 

D.C. isn’t home. Not anymore. Sam doesn’t belong here. Maybe he doesn’t belong anywhere at all.

**

_ “You met CAPTAIN AMERICA?!” _

_ Sam doesn’t have to see Sarah’s face to know her eyes are popping out of her skull. Sarah manages to sound just as hyper over the phone as she does in person. The childlike excitement in Sarah’s voice makes Sam chuckle.  _

_ “We just met while I was on a run! And it’s not that big of a deal, really. He’s really down-to-earth.” _

_ “Boy, shut the hell up. It  _ **_is_ ** _ a big deal. What if you fuck around and end up being friends with the leader of the Avengers?”  _

_ Sam blushes. “You know, you really shouldn’t cuss like that with Shayla around.” _

_ “Shayla ain’t ‘around’--she’s asleep,” Sarah says smugly. “And don’t try to change the subject! You’re the one that brought him up.” _

_ “I just wanted to share an interesting tidbit about my life with my little sister. I didn’t think it would turn into  _ **_this.”_ **

_ “You should’ve known it would.” Sam knows that Sarah is rolling her eyes at him. “But seriously, though. Are you gonna hang out with him?” _

_ Sam lies back on his bed, and absentmindedly plays with his dog tags as he listens to Sarah’s question. Sam’s trying to play it cool, but the thought of actually spending more time with Steve Rogers makes his stomach flip.  _

_ “I don’t know,” Sam says, hoping his voice doesn’t betray how he’s feeling. “He came by the group the other day. We were talking about stuff we might want to do for fun sometimes.”  _

_ “Sammy, that is so cool! You’re gonna end up having Captain America as a BFF!” _

_ Sam snorts and rolls over onto his side. “I doubt that’s gonna happen.” _

_ Sarah goes quiet for a moment. Then, she hesitantly says, “I mean . . . maybe he could be more than a friend.” _

_ Sam freezes, and presses his phone against his ear so hard that it actually hurts. _

_ “What does  _ **_that_ ** _ mean?” _

_ Sam can hear Sarah struggling to keep her tone casual.  _

_ “I mean, maybe you two could go on a date sometime . . .” _

_ Sam slowly sits up. He feels breathless, and his heart is pounding so hard that he almost wants it to stop.  _

_ “Why would you say that?” _

_ Sarah doesn’t answer, and Sam irrationally thinks she’s hung up on him. _

_ “ _ **_Sarah!_ ** _ ” _

_ “I’m still here!” Sarah responds. “And it’s just . . . I mean, when I listen to you talk about meeting Steve Rogers, I feel like this is the happiest you’ve sounded since Riley.”  _

_ Sam flinches. He’ll probably never stop flinching when he hears Riley’s name. _

_ “And, to be honest, I’ve always thought Riley made you happier than pretty much anything or anyone else. So, I just kinda thought that you were . . .”  _

_ Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times as he struggles to respond to his sister. He could deny it, pull out one of the many distractions, diversions or lies that he’s conjured up over the years. Sam’s been dodging this for so long that it should be second-nature to him. _

_ But . . . Sarah’s already half-way there anyway. And Sam’s tired.  _

_ “Gay,” Sam finishes, his voice trembling. “I’m gay.”  _

_ “ . . . You’re gay?” Sarah’s voice is tight. _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “And you and Riley were . . . ?” _

_ Riley--big, solid, warm and goofy as hell. And, for about 4 years, all Sam’s.  _

_ “Yeah. Yeah, we were.”  _

_ Sam hears Sarah exhale roughly. He braces himself.  _

_ “Oh, okay, so I wasn’t wrong!’ Sarah says with a shaky laugh. “My gaydar is working!” _

_ Sam lets out a laugh that probably sounds hysterical. His body shakes so hard that he can’t sit up straight anymore, and he ends up falling back onto his bed.  _

_ “I hate you,” Sam says. “I hate you so much. I shouldn’t have called you tonight.”  _

_ Sarah laughs, too, loudly and cheerfully. “I love you, too, Sammy! Besides, this could’ve been a lot worse. You could’ve told Gideon. Or Mama.” _

_ Sam shudders. “Oh,  _ **_God_ ** _. I can’t imagine trying to talk to them about this. I can barely believe that I’m talking to you about it.”  _

_ “That means  I’m special!” Sarah says. “And, you know, it also means that I’m right, and you should flirt with Captain America some more.”  _

_ Tears fall Sam’s face as he laughs again. He feels lighter than he has in years.  _

_ “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Sam mumbles. “Whatever you say baby sister.”  _

**

Sam books the Air BnB before he can talk himself out of it. 

Sam’s going to have to rely on his instinctual impulsiveness to get him through this trip. He has to go into with his mind completely blank. Because, if he thinks about it too much, Sam will give himself a thousand excuses as to why he shouldn’t go to Harlem.

He’ll tell himself he’s bothering Sarah, or that he doesn’t want to risk having to talk to his brother for too long. Sam will tell himself that he really shouldn’t be traveling like that anyway, since he’s technically still laying low. Sam will tell himself that he’s just too damn tired to go. 

Sam can’t afford to talk himself out of this one. He’s gotta go  _ home.  _ His actual home. 


	11. Chapter 11

Harlem looks a lot different from what Sam remembers. 

It looks more expensive. And _whiter._ The old Black men that used to sit on their steps telling lies and nasty jokes have been replaced by white 20-something-year-old men wearing saddle bags and high-water slacks. 

All those warnings about gentrification weren’t overblown, after all. Mom-and-pop shops have been replaced with weirdly modernized corner stores that look like mini versions of Whole Foods stores. Even the bodega cats have taken to prowling the streets with dissatisfied looks on their faces, hissing at men in khakis and Sperrys. 

Sarah lives in an apartment on 126th, just off of Malcolm X Boulevard. Sam remembers this street as being mostly residential, but now there’s businesses all over the place. Banks, quick loan joints, restaurants, and clothing stores all littered about. Liquor stores tucked in neatly next to churches and beauty shops. And patrons of each and every store rushing up and down the sidewalks and streets. 

Damn. Sam thought D.C. was bad. Sam walks the street and he can’t help but feel sensory overload. How is Sarah raising Shayla around all of _this_? How does she even watch her kid when there’s hundreds of other people she’s gotta watch every time she walks inside of her front door?

Then again, how did their mother raise the three of them in South Harlem, with all the traffic, and noise and people lurking around? How could their mother bring up well-adjusted adults in the middle of all this?

 _She couldn’t._ The thought is soft and fleeting, but it nearly stops Sam in his tracks, anyway. Because she couldn’t, not really. Their mother is the greatest woman to ever live, yet she struggled every single day with what the outside world would eventually do to her kids. And it’s not like Sam made it any easier for her. He made her worry all the time; he could never sit still and act right, especially not after his father died. Sam was always running a little wild, even when he knew she was watching him. Sam can’t ever apologize to her enough. 

Sam finds Sarah’s building and stands at the bottom of the stairs. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and finds his sister’s number.

Sam just stares at it for a moment. What if she’s not home? She’s probably at work or maybe she’s out with friends. What if she _is_ home and doesn’t feel like answering the phone or having company over? What if she just doesn't want to talk to Sam? 

Well, Sam won’t know until he tries, right? He takes a deep breath and presses Sarah’s number, feeling anxious as he listens to her phone ring. It rings and rings and rings, and just as Sam’s about to hang up and go back to his AirBnB, the door to the apartment building swings wide open.

Sarah’s standing there, her phone in her hand, and an incredulous look on her face.

“Boy, where _the hell_ have you been?” 

**

Sarah’s place is much more spacious than Sam would’ve expected. 

“Shayla’s at school?” Sam asks, glancing around the open space. His eyes water as he takes in the natural light pouring in from the windows. 

“Yep,” Sarah says from down the hall, where’s she taking off her shoes. “Plus, she’s staying over dad’s house for the week, anyway.” 

“Okay,” Sam mumbles.

He starts to drift around the apartment. New York apartments make Sam feel claustrophobic; they’re so tight that someone Sam’s size has a hard time just walking around. He always feels like the halls are going to close in on him at any second, squeezing him until every bone snaps in half and his body collapses in on itself. 

Sam can walk through Sarah’s home with ease. He passes by the kitchen and laundry room and walks into the living room, studying the pictures of Shayla and pieces of art Sarah has all over the place. There’s a big painting that catches Sam’s eye; it’s of a Black woman in a bright blue dress adorned in colorful shells and strings of pearls, standing in the middle of the ocean, waves whipping wildly around her feet. 

“She’s Yemọja,” Sarah says suddenly, startling Sam. “She’s the patron deity of women and motherhood. A goddess.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow at the painting. “Oh, that’s the kind of stuff you’re into now?” he mutters. 

Sarah scoffs. “Well, I guess it’s not as ‘impressive’ as being a sidekick, right? It doesn’t keep me as busy as _you’ve_ been.” 

The word “sidekick” lands like a kidney punch, and Sam flinches hard. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah quickly says when she sees the wounded look on Sam’s face. “I’m sorry, that was mean. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Sam shrugs, avoiding her eye. “You’re not wrong, though, so it’s whatever.” 

Sarah looks like she’s about to argue with Sam, but she just sighs instead.

“Go sit down,” she says. “You look like hell, Sammy.”

“Thanks, baby sister,” Sam says sarcastically. “That really makes me feel good.” 

Sarah rolls her eyes and beckons for Sam to go sit down on the couch. 

“I’ll get us a drink,” Sarah says as she walks into the kitchen. “You look like need some whiskey.” 

Sam sits down heavily, settling in front of Sarah’s t.v. Sam catches his own reflection, and he has to admit that Sarah’s right; weeks later, and he _still_ looks bad. 

Sarah reappears with two shot glasses and a bottle of Crown Royal. Sam grins as she sits down next to him.

“You turning into our dad with that Crown Royal,” Sam teases. “All you missing is that purple bag.”

Sarah laughs loudly. “Dad wasn’t wrong about _everything._ And that bag somewhere in that kitchen.” 

Sarah pours them both a shot, and they down them without a moment of hesitation. The liquor burns Sam’s throat in a way that’s incredibly satisfying. 

“So, big brother,” Sarah says in a rasp, “who you hiding from?”

“Huh?”

“Who are you _hiding from_ ?” Sarah pours herself another shot. “Because there’s no other reason for you to go _months_ without talking to any of us and then suddenly appearing on my doorstep looking like ‘Who did it and what for?’” 

Sam watches Sarah with guilty eyes as she downs her shot. 

“I can’t just come see my baby sister?” Sam tries. 

“HA! Boy, please! I’m not stupid. What’s going on? Should I be checking over my shoulder?” 

Sam blinks at her. “Sarah, if I was in danger, I wouldn’t have come _here_. I wouldn’t risk your and Shayla’s lives like that.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “I appreciate the sentiment. But I’m a good shot with more than one gun, and I’m making sure that Shayla’s pretty handy with a metal bat. We’re not _that_ helpless. So, what’s really up?” 

“I’m not hiding from anyone,” Sam says quietly. “I’m not in any danger. Not as far as I know.” 

Sarah considers Sam for a long moment, focusing on his eyes. 

“Then, what’s going on?” Sarah eventually asks. “I mean--I imagine you can’t give me _details_ , but . . .” 

Sam bites his tongue as he looks at Sarah. There’s so much he can’t say that doesn’t know how to begin explaining at all. 

Sam takes a shot and a deep breath. 

“We had a mission, Cap and I,” Sam says. “We had to . . . escort someone to safety.  And it was a very _rough_ mission, but we managed it. Before I knew it, it was all over and I had to go home. But . . . I didn’t feel right. In D.C. So, now I’m here.” 

Sarah nods thoughtfully. “And when you say ‘rough,’ what do you mean? Someone get hurt?” 

Sam starts to answer. No, no. He’s fine, they’re all _fine_ . But then his breath gets stuck in the center of his chest, and he just _looks_ at Sarah. Sam can feel his eyes starting to water, and this is _ridiculous._ It’s absolutely ridiculous, but Sam almost wishes that he _had_ gotten hurt; that he had some gash, some bruises, breaks or sprains. Because Sam needs to _something_ on his body to reflect how he feels. 

Sarah gives Sam a hard stare. She leans closer to him, her empty shot glass dangling from her hand. 

“Sam,” Sarah says with an edge to her voice, “what happened? Are you okay?” 

“ . . . No,” Sam confesses. “No.” 

Sarah puts her shot glass down, and takes Sam’s hand, squeezing it gently. Without a word, Sarah looks at Sam and urges him to say more, to get it all out this time. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s happened to me,” Sam continues, “but when I realized that Cap and his _friend_ didn’t need me anymore, I just . . . it took a lot out of me. In some weird ass way, I’d started to hope that it could be the _three_ of us, you know? It’d be the three of us handling this shit together. But I realized that I didn’t really matter that much to them.”

Or himself, Sam thinks. He didn’t really matter to _himself,_ either. And oh, _that’s_ what his big problem is, isn’t it?

“I think I came here--to you--because I needed to be around someone who I know I matter to,” Sam says quietly. “I know you care about me. Even if we don’t like to admit it to one another,” he adds with a weak smile.

Sarah laughs lightly and leans her head against Sam’s shoulder. “Of course I care about you, Sammy. I can’t help but love my big brother.” 

Sam lets his head fall on top of Sarah’s. The feeling of her hair against his cheek soothes him. 

“Thank you. I love you, too.” 

“And anyone who makes you feel like you don’t matter to them is not worth it,” Sarah says firmly. “I don’t care how fine or amazing or superhero-y they are. You deserve someone who can _fully_ show you how much they love you. Got that?”

Sam listens to the way Sarah’s scolding him, and sighs softly. He lets her words be louder than the ones in his head, the ones that have been nagging at him since the day he lost Riley. 

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. He closes his eyes against the tears that are forming again. “I got it.” 

**

126th goes quiet at night. 

That’s different, too; Sam remembers hearing the sounds of a neighborhood all day and night when he was a kid. People laughing and arguing, singing and playing music at odd hours of the night. People coming and going to work. Living lives that could not be contained by a sleep schedule, or the rise and fall of the moon. 

But it’s quiet tonight. A hush falls over every apartment and condo. No cars drive down the street. And, lying on Sarah’s couch, Sam sleeps more comfortably than he has in months. There aren’t any nightmares, or distant voices that wake him. He just sleeps into the darkness, feeling safe and warm in a way he had gotten disused to. 

**

“Sam! _Sam!_ Wake up!” 

Sam just barely forces his eyes open. It’s morning; soft sunlight is filtering through the blinds over Sarah’s windows. The street is still quiet. 

But Sarah’s standing in front of Sam in her pajamas, her bonnet, and a small gun on her hip.

Sam sits upright, alarmed, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in. 

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“I think you accidentally lied about nobody coming after you,” Sarah whispers fiercely. “Miss Johnson from across the way called me and said someone was creeping around outside, looking for _you._ ”

Sam gets off of the couch and moves to the window. Sarah quickly follows, peering over his shoulder. Sam can just barely make out the figure of a man in a dark-colored jacket, pacing in front of Sarah’s apartment building. 

Wait. No. No, can’t be. 

Sam quickly moves past Sarah and puts on his shoes.

“Sam! Where are you going? Who is that??” Sarah demands. 

Sam walks out of the apartment without answering her. He can hear Sarah immediately following behind her, but his mind is moving too fast to consider trying to convince her to stay inside. 

That’s _not_ who Sam thinks it is. It can’t be. But Sam still has to see for himself. 

Sam and Sarah walk outside. The cool morning air should send a shiver down Sam’s spine, but Sam is hyper-focused and can barely feel it. At first, he doesn’t see anyone at all on the sidewalk. He keeps glancing back and forth and seeing nothing but empty streets.

But then Sarah elbows him in the side.

“ _Look_ ,” she hisses, her eyes shifting to his right. 

And Sam turns around. And there he is--Bucky Barnes, in a heavy black jacket, his long hair pulled into a low ponytail. Staring at Sam with wide, nervous eyes. 

“Hi, Sam.” 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I can guarantee this is 100% Less Sad now. 
> 
> I *cannot* guarantee that it is typo-free.

Sarah won’t leave the room. 

She sits on the couch next to Sam, her legs crossed, and her gun in her hand. Sarah stares at Bucky with such an intense gaze that makes Sam nervous. Bucky sits in the loveseat, watching her back warily. 

Sam looks between Sarah and Bucky. They’re both being so still, neither wanting to make a sudden move. Sam can see in Bucky’s eyes that he’s trying to assess how much danger he’s in; Bucky examines Sarah, his eyes flitting back and forth between the gun, her eyes, the way her jaw is set, the way one eyebrow is slightly quirked.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sarah announces. “So, you might as well handle whatever business you need to handle.”

Bucky glances to Sam, both eyebrows raised. Sam shrugs, and tries to will himself to relax.

“Whatever you gotta say to me, you’ll have to say it in front of her,” Sam says. 

Bucky nods slowly and looks over to Sarah again. He gives her the most shy smile Sam has ever seen. 

“You guys look alike,” Bucky timidly acknowledges. “A lot alike, actually.”

Sarah smirks at him. “Good looks run in the family. Well, except for our brother.” 

Bucky chuckles softly, anxiety making his voice shake. “That’s nice to know.” 

“ _Bucky_ ,” Sam says, because he can’t take it anymore. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky blinks and tilts his head as if he doesn’t understand the question.

“I wanted to see you,” Bucky answers, as if it should be obvious. “I _needed_ to see you.” 

Sam’s throat goes dry; it feels like it’s tightening, too. The air is too thick to breathe. Sam can feel Sarah watching him, but he refuses to meet her eye. 

“ _Why_ ?” Sam demands. “Why did you _need_ to see me?” 

Bucky just watches Sam for a moment, hurt flashing in his eyes. Then he sighs heavily.

“The day you left, we wanted to follow you,” Bucky says quietly. “But Natal-- _Natasha_ stopped us. She said we needed to give you time and space. That if we didn’t, we’d only make things worse.” 

“The day he left?” Sarah echoes. She cuts her eyes at Sam. “You said you had to go. Like you had no choice but to go.”

“I didn’t,” Sam answers roughly. “I _had_ to leave.” 

Bucky flinches at Sam’s tone. Sam tries not to feel bad about it. 

“Yeah, I know we didn’t make it easy for you to be around us,” Bucky admits. “I get why you wanted to go.” 

“Yet, here you are,” Sams says tiredly. He groans and rubs his eyes. “How’d you even know I was here? I left _weeks_ ago, when you guys were in the middle of Arizona.” 

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. “Well, you said you were going _home._ And I remembered that you told me that you were from Harlem. And, you know, we have our ways of finding out info, so I ended up finding out about your sister. I guess I thought I could come here and ask around . . .” 

“And so you paced around the front of my building like a creeper?” Sarah questions. “Because you almost got shot this morning, Mr. Barnes.” 

Sam shoots Sarah a look, but Bucky just smiles sheepishly. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you or anything,” Buck says. “I was pacing outside because I didn’t know what I was going to say. But I just felt like we needed to say _something_ after what happened.”

“And so you and Steve just what? Decided to blow off whatever plan Nat and Tony had for you to chase after me instead?” 

Bucky nods, and Sam’s stomach twists. “I told Steve we should’ve come here first, but he kept saying that you were in D.C. So, we went to D.C., but we couldn’t find you. Then we went back to where Tony has us to regroup or something, but _that_ didn’t work out because all we did was argue.” 

“You argued about me?”  Sam blurts out. He sounds too eager, too much like he needs to know that they’ve thought of him that much. 

But Bucky gives him a gentle look. 

“Of course we did,” Bucky says. “You know we argue about you. Steve told you that.” 

That’s true. Sam does remember that. Sam thinks of that last night with Steve--Steve’s hands on Sam, Sam trying to stifle soft moans--and his face flushes. 

Sarah watches Sam closely, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head at him. Then she very slowly stands up, putting her hands up in a sign of peace.

“You know what? I actually think I _should_ go,” Sarah says. “Because I’m getting the feeling that is going to involve emotions, and I don’t wanna be a part of all that touchy-feely nonsense.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, but he can’t ignore how grateful he is for her right now. 

“Goodbye, Sarah,” Sam says pointedly. 

“Call me if you need me, baby brother,” Sarah says with a bright smile. 

Sarah slides out of the living room, walking into her bedroom a few doors down. Sam knows his little sister; she’s definitely got the door cracked so she can still hear what’s being said. That nosiness has saved his ass on more than one occasion. 

Bucky gets up and sits down in the spot that Sarah left. Bucky’s suddenly _close_ to Sam, so close that he can see a tiny, faint scar just below Bucky’s right eye. 

“Look, Steve and I have decades’ worth of bullshit to work through, and I’m sorry we dragged you into it,” Buck says softly. “And I’m _really_ sorry that we made you feel like we didn’t need you, or that . . . or that we didn’t _care_ about you.”

“I think this is the most amount of words you’ve ever said to me,” Sam mumbles, stunned. “And I’m having a hard time grasping them.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says with a loud. “And I’m having a hard time believing that I’m saying them. But it’s how I feel.” 

Sam blinks rapidly. His mind is working hard to process what’s happening, but Sam feels stuck. Sam wants to push Bucky as far away as he can get him, but he already knows that Bucky wouldn’t budge. Sam’s looking at Bucky and realizing that Bucky would plant his feet firmly on the ground and wouldn’t move no matter how hard Sam pushed him. 

And that scares Sam. 

“I don’t understand how I could,” Sam retorts harshly, because he still wants to try to put distance between them. “Like you just said, you two have _decades_ to figure out. And it’s not like Steve was very keen on us knowing each other that well, anyway. As far as I can tell, you two are just fine without me.”

“You feel that way because you haven’t been around us for the past month or so,” Bucky says bitterly. “But trust me--it’s been a mess. Steve’s convinced that he _has_ to make a choice between us, and that he’s ruined everything because he couldn't decide.”

Sam frowns deeply. His cynicism is working overtime, and Sam would love to either just fully believe Bucky and fall into his words, or to fully reject this and go back to his home in D.C. and spend the rest of his life figuring out a way to finally forget about this. 

“I mean,” Bucky continues, “This isn’t exactly the first time this has happened with me and Steve.”

Sam squints at Bucky. It takes him a second to realize what Bucky’s just said. 

“Wait, so you, Steve and Peggy were . . . ?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Something like it.”

“I . . .” Sam leans away from Bucky. He’s trying to picture tough, direct, kick ass  Peggy Carter tolerating a love triangle between the three of them. The picture isn't coming together, though. 

“It was scary and stressful, because no one else could know about Steve and I,” Bucky supplies. “That was something _only_ the three of us could ever know about.” 

Sam has a memory: him, standing at Riley’s grave, looking down at the ants crawling around the toe of his dress shoes. Too angry, hurt, and ashamed to look up. Riley took Sam to the grave. For a long time, Sam thought he would do the same. 

“Yeah, I . . . I know how that is,” Sam murmurs. 

Bucky nods. Then he scrunches his nose up and pensively says, “Although, I think it was actually easier for them back then, because Steve thought I was dead for a time. So it ended up just being him and Peggy.” 

Sam stares at Bucky now, his lips slightly parted. He knows he probably looks dumb, but he can’t really help it. 

“You get why I’m having a hard time trusting this, right?” Sam asks. “ You understand why it doesn’t make sense to me?”

Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but then he bites his lower lip. His eyes travel all over Sam’s face before falling to the ground. 

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Bucky says sadly. “But I swear I’m being as honest as possible.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Sam’s words are faint. Because now he’s actually imagining the three of them. He’s picturing them, and _that_ picture _is_ coming together. Sam’s heart flutters as pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know he was building start fitting in with one another. 

Bucky sees the change in Sam’s eyes, and he smiles. 

“It was different with her because Peggy and I didn’t get on like that,” Bucky offers. 

“ _We_ don’t get on like that, either,” Sam tries. 

Bucky’s soft smile slowly transforms into a smirk.

“ _That_ sounds like a lie,” Bucky says, his voice low. 

Because it is. And Sam knows it. But it doesn’t hurt to try. 

Sam can feel his guard dropping as he looks into Bucky’s eyes. As bewildering and unbelievable as this sounds, Sam thinks he might want this. But, one more extremely pertinent question presents itself to Sam.

“Bucky, if you and Steve _both_ feel this way, why isn’t he here?” Sam asks, sadness creeping into his voice. “Why’d he let you come alone?” 

Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Well . . .” Bucky says shakily.

Sam’s face--and stomach--drops.

“Bucky,” Sam says sternly, “ _please_ tell me Steve knows where you are.” 

Bucky looks at Sam for a long moment. Then he twists his wrist and looks down at a watch Sam hadn’t noticed.

“I mean, he _definitely_ knows by now.” 

Sam jumps up from the couch. His head spins, but he can’t tell if it’s from the sudden movement or from what Sam’s just realized. 

“You left without _telling_ him?” Sam nearly yells. “Are you crazy?!” 

Bucky throws his hands up in surrender. “He wouldn’t listen to me! And I didn’t want to waste anymore time. Besides, I left him a message specifically telling him that I was coming to this street to find you. Tony’s got us in a place just outside of Newark, so Steve’s probably already in the city by now.” 

“We spent all that time trying to find you and you really just left him on a whim,” Sam says incredulously. “He might actually kill you.”

Bucky stands up from the couch, standing close to Sam. 

“I mean, it wasn’t for a _whim._ It was for you.”

“How fucking romantic,” Sam grumbles. Then he takes Bucky’s hand. “We gotta go.”

Sam pulls a surprised Bucky across the living room and towards the front door.

“Sarah, we’re leaving!” Sam yells. 

Sarah comes scurrying out of her room before they make it out of the door.

“Wait, wait! Where are you going?”

“To where I’m staying,” Sam says. “Unless you want a very angry Captain America banging on your door in a couple of hours.” 

“I mean, I wouldn’t be _opposed_ ,” Sarah says with a shrug. 

Bucky twists around to say something to Sarah, but Sam yanks him through the door before he can get a word out.

“I’ll call you later!” Sam promises as they rush down the hall.

“You better!’ Sarah shouts behind him, and Bucky barely stifles a laugh. 

And after Sam has pulled Bucky down the hall, down the stairs and out of the front of the door the complex, Bucky suddenly pulls him to a stop. 

“ _Wait_ a second, Sam,” Bucky says. 

Sam turns around to face Bucky. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“Just . . . in case he actually _does_ kill me for this,” Bucky mumbles. 

And before Sam can ask what he means, Bucky kisses Sam. and the kiss is soft and chaste but intense, and Sam leans into it and kisses back before his common sense and skepticism and fear can tell him not to. 

When they finally break, Bucky looks at Sam with a faint smile. 

“Yeah, this might actually work,” Bucky says. 

The sun beams down on them as they stand on the sidewalk. Sam feels hot and cold and everything else all at once.  


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally nearing the end, you guys!!

They keep kissing. 

They barely making it down the street before Bucky pulls Sam into an alley and kisses him again. Bucky kisses and kisses, and Sam kisses back. 

He still can’t believe  _ this  _ is happening. Bucky feels right in Sam’s arms; the warmth of Bucky’s face, the weight of his solid body against Sam’s, the way his metal hand is pressing against Sam’s side just a little bit harder than his flesh hand,  the softness of Buck’s lips against Sam’s. 

It all feels entirely too real to Sam yet completely and utterly surreal.

They’re stalling, Sam thinks. They’re delaying the inevitable  _ conversation _ they need to have, where the three of them have to sit down and figure out the logic of what they are and address the messiness of how they’ve gotten  _ here.  _

Sam’s nerves have twisted into knots inside of his back and shoulders. Sam has too many questions to ask right now; he has too many worries and fears, too much anxiety build up.  He needs to get them out into the open. He needs to let them fall off of his tongue as quickly as they can. 

But--the sun is hot against his skin, and Bucky’s got him pressed up against a brick wall in Sam’s side of town. They’re in Sam’s old neighborhood, in broad daylight, kissing like they just discovered the concept. 

So, Sam grips the bottom of Buck’s shirt and sighs into the kiss. And he slowly feels himself begin to untangle. 

**

Sam and Bucky aren’t in Sam’s AirBnB a whole five minutes when they hear a loud knock on the door. 

They sit close together on the couch, legs pressing against each other, peering at the door as if it might explode if they approach it. Sam’s actually surprised it doesn’t just swing open and slam against the wall, considering who’s on the other side. 

“You get it,” Sam says to Bucky. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and his lips quirk upward into a faint smirk. “Really?” 

Sam shrugs, biting back a smirk of his own. 

“It’s for you, anyway.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but gets up to open the door anyway. Sam’s heart skips a beat as Bucky opens the door. 

Steve’s there, arms crossed, jaw twitching and fear in his eyes. But, in that moment, Steve’s entire body deflates when he sees Bucky and Sam. 

“Oh, thank God,” Steve says. “You’re both here.”

“Did you think it was a trap?” Bucky asks.

Bucky steps aside so that Steve can walk through. Steve steps into the room, looking large and looming in the smaller space. 

“I didn’t know  _ what  _ it was,” Steve says firmly. “I just knew that I woke up and you were gone.” 

Bucky walks around Steve and sits down next to Sam again. 

“Maybe you’ll listen to me next time?” Bucky says.  

Steve nods, but he’s not looking at Bucky anymore. Now his eyes are trained on Sam. Steve looks at Sam so sadly and intensely that it should make Sam uncomfortable. But Sam just watches him back. 

“Well,” Steve says faintly, “I’m hoping there won’t  _ be  _ a ‘next time.’” 

Sam shrugs, working to keep his face as blank as possible.

“I guess that depends on how this goes, right?” 

Steve blinks at Sam, his lips slightly parted. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d say that he sees fear in Steve’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Steve says in a sigh. His voice trembles. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Sam sets his jaw and looks at Steve with a hard stare. Sam can feel himself retreating behind a wall, and yes, that is childish and counterproductive, but it’s the only way to protect himself.

“Sorry for  _ what _ , exactly?” Sam questions. “Are you sorry for not telling me the truth? Or about trying to put a gap between me and Bucky? Or, are you sorry about making me your third wheel in the first place?”

Sam can feel Bucky moving next to him, but Sam stays focused on the way Steve’s face changes. 

“You are  _ not  _ a third wheel,” Steve forcefully retorts. “You are our  _ friend. _ ”

“Then how come I  _ feel  _ like one?” Sam’s voice is raising, and his body is tightening. “How come  _ you  _ make me feel like one? Bucky’s told me how  _ he  _ feels. But what about  _ you _ , Steve? Why are you doing any of  _ this? _ ” 

“I’m doing  _ this  _ because I hurt you!” Steve exclaims, barely controlling the volume of his voice. “I was--I was so busy trying not to hurt either of you that I ended up hurting you both. And I hurt  _ you  _ the most.” 

Whatever words Sam is reaching for elude him. Before Sam can compose himself, Steve strides across the room and kneels down in front of him. Sam’s suddenly looking directly into Steve’s startlingly blue eyes, and he’s feeling the warmth of Steve’s large hand on his knee.

“Listen, Sam. I’m not as good at  _ this _ as I’d like to be. Neither one of us has much practice in the area,” Steve says, quickly glancing over to Bucky. Steve looks Sam in the eyes again. “And I know this type of relationship is very unconventional, and we don’t have much practice at this, either. But I  _ also  _ know that I love you both so much. I don’t know what I’d do--what I’d  _ be _ \--without you. I . . . I need you. And I don’t mean ‘need you’ as if you were a sidekick or a resource. I don’t need you just because you’re smart and kick on your feet in a battle. I need  _ you,  _ Sam Wilson _. We  _ need you.” 

Sam’s breathing slows. The world around him fades, curling up at the edges like a burnt piece of paper. Sam feels Bucky pressed against his side, and Steve’s hand against his knee. They’re anchoring him. Keeping him tethered to reality in a way that he hasn’t been able to do for himself in a long time. Sam watches Steve’s eyes, the way Steve’s lips are trembling, and Sam’s own heartbeat sounds too loud in his ears.

“You know what, Steve?” Sam says slowly.  “I wish I hadn’t met you. You know why?” 

Steve winces, and his body goes rigid, but he nods for Sam to continue.

“I wish I hadn’t met you because my life had  _ finally  _ started to get back on track when I did,” Sam says. “I’d  _ finally  _ gotten back on my own two feet. I’d decided to just go about my life and try to be as content as I could possibly be.”

Steve glances down at the ground with a guilty expression. “And I showed up and dragged you into trouble . . .” he mutters. 

_ Yes, you did.  _ Sam could say that, and it would be technically be true. Steve dragged him into a government conspiracy, right? He disturbed Sam’s peaceful civilian life. That’s enough of an excuse to be done right then and there. 

But Sam knows himself too well to even lie like that. 

“Yeah, you did,” Sam starts, “but that’s not even the problem. The problem is that I looked at you, and I felt like a giant hole in my life had been filled. And I went on a crazy ass death mission with you, and it was the first time I’ve felt like  _ myself  _ in years. It felt  _ right  _ to be with you, even though it made absolutely no fucking sense at all.”

Steve looks at sam with a hesitantly hopeful look on his face. Sam finds himself leaning away, all the way back until his back is solidly against the couch. Sam tosses a hand over his eyes. It’s a desperate attempt to get distance, because Steve’s eyes and Bucky’s nervous presence, and the fact that Sam is actually about to say  _ it  _ aloud are all too much for Sam right now.

“I . . . I think I’ve loved your dumb ass since I first met you,” Sam confesses. “So I’ve had to deal with being in love with you, and  _ now  _ I have to deal with  _ also _ having feelings for this one up on top of that? How am I supposed to do that?” 

It’s dead quiet in the room. Sam doesn’t even feel either of them moving around. Sam wants to yell at them to just  _ say something  _ so that they can get whatever is about to happen over with. Anxiety starts to eat through Sam’s chest.

Then he feels Bucky’s hand on his wrist. Bucky gently pulls Sam’s hands away from his eyes. 

“Personally, I think you could’ve done a lot worse than us,” Bucky jokes with a smirk. 

Sam rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop the big grin from spreading across his face.

“Of course you think that, Barnes,” Sam says. “I don’t know if I agree just yet, though.” 

Bucky lays his head on Sam’s shoulder. 

“Gotta let us prove it to you, then,” he says.

Sam looks over to Steve again. Steve, still kneeling, takes Sam’s hand. 

“The two of us want to figure this out,” Steve says. “And we’re hoping that you want to figure this out, too. Do you?” 

Sam blinks at Steve. Sam might actually be in love with an idiot. And he can’t even be mad about it. 

“Are you . . . actually asking me that right now?” Sam says. “Really? After what I just said. After all of this commotion, you still need me to say it?” 

“It’d . . . be nice to hear,” Steve sheepishly says. 

And Sam laughs without warning, is whole body shaking.

“Yes, you moron!  _ Yes. _ .” 

Steve and Bucky both smile so widely that it looks like it hurts. They couldn’t look more relieved.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done!! Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck through this with me. Our three favorite heartbroken superheros have finally made it.

The idea of living on _ a compound _ should scare Sam.

It’s a thought that used to pass his mind when he lived with the Avengers years ago. Before it all went to hell. 

The building Tony’s got them living in is very Tony-Stark-esque; too big for their own good, chrome and silver all over, probably more teched-out than it needs to be. So many security measures and defense mechanisms that Sam can’t name them all. They each have their own rooms that they don’t seem to spend that much time in. There are common areas and kitchens and dining rooms all over the place. Sam can walk of his room and run into Nat, or Steve or Bucky or Tony at any time of the day or night, and it wouldn’t seem unusual in the slightest. 

Tony likes keeping all of them together as much as possible. He says as much, but he tries to pass it off as one of his smug jokes.

“You know, it’s good to keep your coworkers and sworn enemies in one contained spot,” Tony says to Sam one day, faux carelessness in his voice. “Helps me keep an eye on all of you, just in case I have to take one of you out one day.”

Sam had laughed. There’s no need to call Tony out on his chosen family. Especially not if it happens to include Sam, too. 

It kind of sounds like a cult, if Sam thinks about it too hard. A group of people living together in a huge building in the middle of nowhere, on a grid that no one else knows exists. It probably shouldn’t be Sam’s style all things considered. But Sam’s somewhere quiet, which he needs. And he’s basically a stone’s throw away from Sarah and Shayla. He can always go home if he really needs to. 

Besides, Sam’s always wanted to feel close to his people. To his family, to his friends, to the men he’s loved. In a weird way, this is kind of perfect for him. 

Sam’s father would say that Sam’s been brainwashed, or that his living arrangement is somehow ungodly. 

_ This is  _ **_sick_ ** , Sam’s father would say.  _ Something is  _ **_wrong_ ** _ with you, boy! _

Something probably  _ is  _ wrong with Sam. It’s just not what his father thought it was. 

**

They have a chore chart. It’s Sam’s idea, because he’s more like his mother than he’d like to admit. 

“To make sure you aren’t slacking off, Barnes,” Sam says the day he pins it to a kitchen wall. He tries to sound serious, but it doesn’t really work. “Chores are very important for improving your adulthood skills.” 

Bucky scoffs, and tosses an arm around Sam’s shoulders. 

“I’ll have you know that Stevie is the one who procrastinates,” Bucky says. “He’s gets too wrapped up in whatever else he’s doing and forgets to clean his room.”

Steve crosses his arms and leans against the fridge. Steve looks at them with knitted brows and sideways smile.

“Now, I seem to recall that  _ one  _ of us would clean house whenever he could. And the other would come home and drink a beer and stretch out on the couch.” 

“Yeah, but one of us would just end up tiring themselves out and then the other one would have to cuddle him on the couch,” Bucky retorts with a smirk.

Sam laughs and looks over to them with a raised eyebrow.

“Should I leave so you two can have this argument? Because there’s clearly some old pent-up resentment there.”

Steve glides over and takes Sam’s hand.

“No,  _ please  _ don’t,” Steve says pleadingly. “He only behaves when you’re around.” 

“That is a bold-faced lie,” Bucky says in a syrupy voice. 

Sam looks Bucky directly in the face. “I feel like it’s not.”

Bucky chuckles and kisses Sam on the cheek.

“Yeah, it’s probably not.” 

**

Bucky likes for Sam to lay on him.

They’re sprawled across Bucky’s bed now; Sam’s head on Bucky’s abs, Bucky’s flesh hand spread across Sam’s chest. Bucky softly murmurs about therapy, about the non-invasive tests Tony runs, about how Steve’s mentioned that he knows a king called T’Challa whose sister Shuri is the smartest person in the world, and that she could maybe offer some insight on how to “fix” Bucky faster. 

“They think she could help,” Bucky says, staring at the ceiling. “She and Tony were geeking out about some science tech stuff. I didn’t understand a word of it.” 

Sam chuckles as he imagines the scene; Tony Stark animatedly talking technical mumbo jumbo with an African teenage girl. Much less believable things have happened, though. 

Sam reaches up and runs his thumb across Bucky’s cheek.

“Can’t hurt, right?” Sam says. “At least they’re working.”

Bucky closes his eyes and sighs contentedly, leaning into Sam’s touch. “Yeah. At least they’re working.” 

It’s the skin-to-skin contact, Sam realizes after some time. Sam gets that; he needs it, too. They’re both surprisingly tactile that way. Sam needs to feel the warmth of bare skin under his own. He needs to feel something solid, something  _ human  _ as much as possible. 

So, he and Bucky often end up tangled together. Bucky’s head against Sam’s back, his arms around Sam’s waist, Sam’s hand spread out on Bucky’s thigh. Them connected as much as possible. Bucky, grateful to use his hands for something other than fighting and death. And Sam, grateful for something to hold onto. 

Sometimes, Sam teases Bucky about using Sam as a human blanket. Bucky just snorts and rolls his eyes and pulls Sam closer. 

Steve’s still a little awkward with touch. That’s surprising, too, at first. He’s overly-safe with them, Sam realizes. Even when they’re begging Steve to take them apart, Steve is careful of where his hands fall. Unsure of when and how he should touch them both. Sam doesn’t mind. They have plenty of time to ease Steve into it, to teach him how.  

**

Steve’s antsy. 

The three of them eavesdrop on tense conversations between Tony and Nat; there are crimes to be solved, corruption to expose, a world to be saved. The Avengers are sorely missed. And Steve is fidgety. 

 Really, Steve could only relax for so long before the ills of the world starting gnawing at his nerves. He’s a fucking  _ superhero _ . He always has been. It’s why he was chosen in the first place. Because he was willing to dive headlong into danger and fight monsters who were much bigger than him as long as it meant he was helping those who need help. 

But he’s a superhero with separation anxiety, and he wants the two men he loves to be as far away from any danger as possible at all times.  Steve  _ needs  _ to know they’ll be okay. He can’t lose them. 

Steve tries to explain it to them one day. Sam and Bucky sit on a couch, watching Steve as he paces back and forth, trying to explain the restlessness coursing through him. None of it shocks Sam; they both know their man. 

Sam and Bucky look at one another, and then at Steve.

“If you start going on these missions, you’re not allowed to die,” Bucky says flatly. 

Steve blinks at them and his mouth falls open.

“ _ And  _ you’re not allowed to be captured,” Sam adds. “ _ We’re  _ retired from this shit. We don’t have time to rescue you because you guys decided to turn into the Secret Avengers or something.” 

Steve presses his lips together and just stares at them for a moment. Then he smiles.

**

“You’re doing it again, Cap.”

Sam mumbles, and his words come out very groggily. But Steve hears him just fine; he’s wide awake as he lies next to Sam, his arm draped around Sam’s waist. Bucky’s actually a sleep, nestled against Steve’s back. Sam can peek over Steve’s body and see Bucky’s chest slowly rising and falling. 

“Doing what exactly?” Steve says quietly. 

“Staring at me like a weirdo,” Sam says, “instead of taking your ass to sleep.” 

Steve shrugs and grins at Sam. “Never been much for sleep, though.” 

Sam reaches over and gently puts a hand over Steve’s eyes.

“Start now,” Sam commands. “You gotta be somewhere in a few hours, remember?” 

Somewhere all the way across the country, taking out HYDRA agents that Natasha had managed to take down. 

Steve laughs softly and moves his head so that Sam’s hand falls. 

“What if I want to look at you for a little while longer?” 

“You . . . are so damn corny, Steve.”

Steve giggles softly. Then he leans over and kisses Sam on the lips.

**   
They’ll be fine. They know what they’re doing. 

Sam tells himself that as he tries to keep busy all day. As he cleans, as he works out, as he reads through the detailed notes and copies of their plan that Tony had left them. Sam paces around their wing of the compound, unable to sit still. Worst case scenarios keep popping up in his head, forcing him into useless activity. 

Bucky stops Sam from his ceaseless movement. He grabs Sam by the hand mid-pace and yanks him over to the couch. Bucky silently wraps an arm around Sam, and Sam can’t do anything but close his eyes, take deep breaths and lean against him.

They’ll wait together. They’ve got each other. If everything else in the world just falls apart, at least these two will have each other.

**

Steve comes back in the dead of night, worn out. 

Sam and Bucky listen as Steve stumbles into a shower. The sound of the shower’s spray is soothing to Sam’s ears. 

Eventually, Steve stumbles over to the bed, dried off and completely naked as he flops down and spreads over them. Sam gets a face full of beard and a hot leg thrown over his boxers. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“How, um, how you feeling, big guy?” Bucky mumbles happily, his mouth pressed against Steve’s bicep.

Steve takes a moment. Then he sighs heavily.

_ “Old _ ,” he answers. “So, very old.” 

A loud laugh tears through Sam’s body, and the whole bed shakes as he and Bucky snicker. 

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Steve groans. But he starts laughing, too. 

**

It’ll be okay. 

Anxiety still eats away at Sam’s mind, trying to convince him of his ephemeral nature in this relationship.. He still has fear coursing through his body when Steve leaves for another mission. Sam’s heart still breaks when Bucky tells him a particularly hard day. Sam still thinks about what he’s lost and how he lost it. 

 Sam’s not totally okay just yet, even after all this time. 

But he knows he will be one day. They all will be. Maybe even one day soon. 

**

_ “This is will be dangerous,” Steve says, eyes focused on the fake grave in front of his feet. “You don’t have to do this.”  _

_ Sam shoves his hands into his pockets and stares out across the cemetery. It’s almost a little funny that Steve says that. Like Sam has any other choice than to do what he knows is the right thing. _

_ And maybe Sam does have another choice--maybe he could go back to his house and sleep the last few weeks of life away. But that’s not possible. Not really.  _

_ “I know,” Sam says. He turns to look at the back of Steve’s head, and his heart jumps around in his chest. “So, when do we start?”  _


End file.
